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I 


THE    GREAT   ADVENTURE 


BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 


LILIAN 

MR.    PROHACK, 

THE    ROLL-CALL 

THE  PRETTY   LADY 

THE   LION'S   SHARE 

THESE    TWAIN 

CLAYHANGER 

HILDA     LESSWAY8 

THE  OLD  WIVES'   TALE 

DENRY    THE    AUDACIOUS 

THE    OLD    ADAM 

HELEN  WITH   THE  HIGH  HAND 

THE    GATES    OF    WRATH 

POCKET   PHILOSOPHIES 

HOW     TO     MAKE     THE     BEST 

LIFE 

SELF    AND    SELF-MANAGEMENT 
HARRIED    LIFE 
FRIENDSHIP  AND  HAPPINESS 


THE      MATADOR      OF       THE      FIVE 

TOWNS 

THE   BOOK   OF    CARLOTTA 
BURIED    ALIVE 
A   GREAT    MAN 
LEONORA 

WHOM  GOD  HATH   JOINED 
A    MAN    FROM    THE    NORTH 
ANNA  OF   THE   FIVE   TOWNS 
THE   GLIMPSE 
THE    CITY   OF    PLEASURE 
THE    GRAND    BABYLON    HOTEL 
HUGO 


HOW    TO    LIVE    ON     24    HOURS    A 
DAT 

LITERARY  TASTE 
MENTAL  EFFICIENCY 
THE  AUTHOR'S  CRAFT 


THE    HUMAN    MACHINE 


PLAYS 


THE  LOVE  MATCH 

BODY  AND   SOUL 

SACRED  AND    PROFANE  LOVE 

JUDITH 

THE    TITLE 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 
CUPID    AND    COMMONSENSE 
WHAT    THE   PUBLIC   WANTS 
POLITE    FARCES 
THE   HONEYMOON 


IN 


COLLABORATION    WITH    EDWARD    KNOBLOCK, 
MILESTONES 


MISCELLANEOUS 

OUR    WOMEN  THE   TRUTH   ABOUT  AN  AUTHOR 

BOOKS   AND    PERSONS  LIBERTY  ! 

PARIS   NIGHTS  OVER    THERE  :   WAR   SCENES 

THINGS   THAT  HAVE   INTERESTED    ME 

THINGS  THAT  HAVE  INTERESTED  ME.  Second  Series 


NEW  YORK:  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


THE 

GREAT  ADVENTURE 

Play  of  Fancy  in  Four  Acts          r, 


BY 


ARNOLD  BENNETT 

^Author  of  "MILESTONES,"  "THE  STEPMOTHER,  "ftt.  I  /JJ  ^5 


COPYRIGHT,    1913 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


CAUTION:  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby 
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amateur  acting  rights  in  this  play  are  strictly  re' 
served  and  amateur  performances  may  not  be  given 
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tained  in  writing  from  WALTER  H.  BAKER 
COMPANY,  41  Winter  Street,  Boston,  Mass.  All 
unauthorized  performances  will  be  prosecuted. 


BOSTON : 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  COMPANY 

AND 

THE  BAKER  INTERNATIONAL  PLAY  BUREAU 
'Publishers 


Royalty  U\(otice 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession 
of  this  book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production 
first  having  been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  con- 
fers  no  right  or  license  to  professionals  or  amateurs 
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In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to 
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sentation,  production,  recitation  or  public  reading 
may  be  given  except  by  special  arrangement  with 
Walter  H.  Baker  Company,  41  Winter  Street, 
Boston,  Mass. 

This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon 
payment  of  a  royalty  of  TwentyFive  Dollars  for 
each  performance,  payable  to  Walter  H.  Baker 
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Boston." 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by 
law  for  any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as 
follows: 

"Section  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing 
or  representing  any  dramatic  or  musical  compost' 
tion  for  which  copyright  has  been  obtained,  with- 
out  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said  dramatic 
or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  and  assigns, 
shall  be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages 
in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less 
than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty 
dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the 
court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  per- 
formance  and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit, 
such  person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misde- 
meaner,  and  upon  conviction  shall  be  imprisoned 
for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year." — U.  S.  Revised 
Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


CHARACTERS 


I  LAM  CARVE 
ALBERT  SHAWN         . 
DR.  PASCOE 
EDWARD  HORNING    . 
CYRUS  CARVE    .       . 

FATHER  LOOE    .       . 
PETER  HORNING        . 
EBAG   .... 
JOHN  SHAWN 
JAMES  SHAWN    . 
LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR 
TEXEL         .       •       . 
A  WAITER 
A  PAGE 
A  SERVANT 
JANET  CANNOT  .       . 
MRS.  ALBERT  SHAWN 
HONORIA  LOOE 


An  illustrious  Painter 
Ham's  Valet 

Doctor's  Assistant 

Hants      Cousin,     a     City 
Auctioneer 

A  Catholic  Priest 

A  Journalist 

A  Picture  Dealer 

A  Curate 

His  Brother,  a  Curate 

An  American  Millionaire 


.    A  Widow 


Sister  oj  Father  Loot 


SCENES 

ACT  I 

ROOM  IN    ILAM    CARVE'S    HOUSE,    126    REDCLIFFE 
GARDENS 

ACT  II 

PRIVATE  ROOM  AT  THE  GRAND  BABYLON  HOTEL 

ACT  III 

JANET'S  SITTING-ROOM  AT  WERTER  ROAD,  PUTNEY 

ACT  IV 
LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR'S  STUDY,  GROSVENOR  GARDENS 


SPECIAL,  NOTE. — Each  Act  is  divided  into  two  scenes,  separated 
fy  a  passage  of  time  more  or  less  short.  The  passage  of 
time  is  indicated  by  darkening  the  stage  for  a  few  moments. 
No  change  of  scenery  is  involved. 


THE 
GREAT  ADVENTURE 

ACT    I 

SCENE  i 

Front  room  on  ground  floor  at  126  Redcliffe 
Gardens.  An  apartment  furnished  richly 
but  in  an  old-fashioned  way.  Fine  pictures. 
Large  furniture.  Sofa  near  centre.  General 
air  of  neglect  and  dustiness.  Carpet  half- 
laid.  Trunks  and  bags  lying  about  in  corners, 
some  opened.  Men's  wearing  apparel  exposed. 
Mantelpiece,  R.,  in  disorder.  At  back  double 
doors  (ajar]  leading  to  another  room.  Door, 
L.,  leading  to  hall  and  front  door. 

TIME. — Evening  in  August. 

ALBERT  SHAWN  is  reclining  on  the  sofa,  fully 
dressed,  but  obviously  ill:  an  overcoat  has 
been  drawn  over  his  legs.  A  conspicuous 
object  is  a  magnificent  light  purple  dressing- 
gown  thrown  across  a  chair. 

Door  bangs  off.  Enter  I  LAM  CARVE  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  hurriedly.  SHAWN  feebly  tries  to 
get  up. 


12     THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

CARVE.  Now,  don't  move.  Remember  you're 
a  sick  man,  and  forget  you're  a  servant. 

(SHAWN  shivers.  CARVE,  about  to  put 
on  his  dressing-gown,  changes  his  wind, 
and  wraps  it  round  SHAWN  as  well  as 
he  can.  CARVE  then  puts  on  an  oldish 
coat.} 

SHAWN.  (Feebly)  You've  been  very  quick, 
sir. 

CARVE.  I  found  a  red  lamp  only  three  doors 
off.  He'll  be  along  in  half  a  minute. 

SHAWN.     Did  you  explain  what  it  was,  sir? 

CARVE.  (Genially.}  How  could  I  explain 
what  it  was,  you  fool,  when  I  don't  know? 
I  simply  asked  to  see  the  doctor,  and  I  told 
him  there  was  a  fellow-creature  suffering  at 
No.  126,  and  would  he  come  at  once.  "  126?  " 
he  said,  "  1 26  has  been  shut  up  for  years." 

SHAWN.  (Trying  to  smile.}  What  did  you 
say,  sir? 

CARVE.  I  said  (articulating  with  clearness)  a 
hundred  and  twenty-six — and  ran  off.  Then 
he  yelled  out  after  me  that  he'd  come  in- 
stantly. ...  I  say,  Shawn,  we're  discovered. 
I  could  tell  that  from  his  sudden  change  of 
tone.  I  bet  the  entire  street  knows  that  the 
celebrated  Me  has  arrived  at  last.  I  feel  like 
a  criminal  already,  dashed  if  I  don't  1  I  wish 


ACT   I.    SCENE   1  13 

we'd  gone  to  a  hotel    now.     (Walks  about) 

I  say,  did  you  make  up  the  bed  ? 
SHAWN.     I  was  just  doing  it,  sir. 
CARVE.     But  what  about  sheets  and  so  on  ? 
SHAWN.     I  bought  some  this  morning,  ready 

hemmed,  sir — with  those  and  the  travelling 

rug 

CARVE.    Well,    don't    you    think    you    could 

work   your  passage  out  to  the  bed?     With 

my  help? 

SHAWN.     Me  in  your  bed,  sir ! 
CARVE.     (Genially  bullying?)     Keep  on  in  that 

tone — and  I'll  give  you  the  sack  on  the  spot. 

Now  then.     Try — before   the  doctor  comes. 

(Bell  rings?) 

SHAWN.     The  bell,  sir — excuse  me. 
CARVE.     Confound 

(Exit  CARVE.) 

(SHAWN  coughs  and  puts  a  handkerchief 
to  his  mouth.  CARVE  returns  immedi- 
ately with  DR.  PASCOE.) 

PASCOE.  (Glancing  round  quickly?)  This  the 
patient?  (Goes  to  SHAWN,  and  looks  at  him. 
Then,  taking  a  clinical  thermometer  from  his 
pocket  and  wiping  it ;  with  marked  respect?) 
Allow  me  to  put  this  under  your  tongue  for 
half  a  minute.  (Having  done  so,  he  takes 
SHAWN'S  wrist  and,  looking  at  his  watch, 
counts  the  patient's  pulse.  Then  turning  to 


14    THE   GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CARVE,  in  a  low  curt  voiced)    When  did  this 
begin  ? 

CARVE.  Just  now.  That  is,  he  only  began  to 
complain  about  six  o'clock.  We  arrived  in 
London  this  morning  from  Madrid. 

PASCOE.  (Reading  thermometer?)  Temperature 
104^.  Pulse  is  140 — and  weak.  I  must  have 
some  boiling  water. 

CARVE.     (At  a  loss?)     What  for? 

PASCOE.    What  for  ?     For  a  poultice. 

CARVE.  (Helplessly?)  But  there  isn't  any  .  .  , 
we've  nothing  except  this  spirit-lamp.  (Point- 
ing to  lamp  on  table!) 

PASCOE.     No  women  in  the  house  ? 

CARVE.  (  With  humour  that  the  doctor  declines 
to  see.)  Not  one. 

PASCOE.  (Controlling  his  exasperation?)  Never 
mind.  I'll  run  round  to  the  surgery  and  get 
my  hypodermic.  (To  SHAWN,  reassuringly 
and  deferentially?)  I  shall  be  back  at  once, 
Mr.  Carve.  (To  CARVE,  near  door?)  Keep 
your  master  well  covered  up — I  suppose  you 
can  do  that  ? 

(Exit.} 

CARVE.  Shawn,  my  poor  fellow,  he  takes  you 
for  the  illustrious  Ham  Carve.  This  is  what 
comes  of  me  rushing  out  in  shirt  sleeves. 
(Gesture  of  despair}  I  can't  explain  it  to 
him. 

SHAWN.    But 


ACT   I.    SCENE   1  15 

CARVE.  It's  all  right.  You'll  be  infinitely 
better  looked  after,  you  know,  and  I  shall 
be  saved  from  their  infernal  curiosity. 

SHAWN.  It's  only  this,  sir.  I  was  half-ex- 
pecting a  young  lady  to-night,  sir  (very 
feebly).  At  least,  I  believe  she's  young. 

CARVE.  Shawn,  I've  always  suspected  you 
were  a  bad  lot.  Now  I  know.  I  also  knpw 
why  you  were  so  devilish  anxious  to  put  me 
to  bed  early.  What  am  I  to  say  to  this 
young  lady  on  your  behalf? 

(SHAWN  worse,  too  ill  to  answer.  Pause. 
Re-enter  DR.  PASCOE,  very  rapidly, 
with  a  large  tumbler  half-full  of  hot 
liquid?) 

PASCOE.  You  may  say  I've  been  quick.  (As 
he  bends  down  to  SHAWN,  addressing  CARVE.) 
Get  me  a  wine  glass  of  clean  cold  water.  (To 
SHAWN.)  Now,  please.  I  want  you  to  drink 
a  little  brandy  and  water.  (SHAWN  makes 
no  response?)  By  Jove!  (The  doctor  pours 
some  of  the  brandy  and  water  down  SHAWN'S 
throat?) 

CARVE.  (Who  has  been  wandering  about 
vaguely?)  I  don't  think  we've  got  a  wine 
glass.  There's  a  cup,  but  I  suppose  that 
isn't  medical  enough. 

PASCOE.     (Taking  a  syringe  from  his  pocket  and 


16    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

unscrewing-    it.)       Pour    some    water    in    it 

(CARVE  obeys.}     Now,  hold  it. 
CARVE.     (Indicating    syringe}     What    is    this 

device  ? 
PASCOE.     This  device  ?     I'm  going  to  get  some 

strychnine    into    him    by    injection.     Steady 

with  that  cup,  now! 

(Pascoe  drops  a  tablet  into  the  syringe  and 
screws  it  up  again>  draws  a  little  water 
up  into  the  syringe  and  shakes  the 
syringe.  Then  he  goes  to  SHAWN  to 
make  the  injection,  on  the  top  side  of 
the  patient's  forearm.  CARVE  still 
holds  the  cup  out  mechanically} 

PASCOE.     I've  done  with  that  cup. 

CARVE.     (Putting  the  cup  down}     Might  I  ask 

what's  the  matter  with  him? 
PASCOE.     Pneumonia  is  the  matter. 

(Noise  of  some  one  in  the  hall} 

CARVE.  (Startled}  Surely  that's  some  one  in 
the  hall. 

PASCOE.  Keep  perfectly  calm,  my  man.  It's 
my  assistant.  I  left  the  door  open  on  purpose 
for  him.  He's  got  the  poultice  and  things. 
(In  a  loud  voice  as  he  finishes  the  injection} 
Come  along,  come  along  there.  This  way. 

(Enter  EDWARD  HORNING  with  poultice, 
lint,  bandages,  etc} 


ACT   I.   SCENE   1  17 

PASCOE.     Found  the  antiphlogistine? 

EDWARD.  Yes.  (He  looks  at  patient,  and  ex- 
changes a  glance  with  PASCOE.) 

PASCOE.     Where's  the  bedroom  ? 

CARVE.  There's  one  there.  (Pointing  to  double 
doors?) 

PASCOE.  (To  HORNING.)  We'll  get  him  into 
bed  now.  (To  CARVE.)  Bed  ready? 

CARVE.  Yes.  I — I  think  he  was  just  making 
it  up. 

PASCOE.  (Startled?)  Does  he  make  up  his  own 
bed? 

CARVE.  (Perceiving  the  mistake,  but  resuming 
his  calm?)  Always. 

PASCOE.  (Controlling  his  astonishment ;  looking 
through  double  doors  and  opening  them  wider. 
To  HORNING.)  Yes,  this  will  do.  Put  those 
things  down  here  a  minute  while  we  lift  him. 

(PASCOE  and  HORNING  then  carry  the 
inanimate  form  of  SHAWN  into  the 
room  behind,  while  CARVE  hovers  about 
uselessly?) 

CARVE.     Can  I  do  anything? 

PASCOE.     (Indicating  a  chair  furthest  away  from 

the  double  doors?)     You  see  that  chair  ? 
CARVE.     I  see  it. 
PASCOE.     Go  and  sit  on  it. 

(Exeunt  PASCOE  and  HORNING,  back, 
closing  double  doors?) 


18     THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

(After  walking  about ',  CARVE  sits  down  on 
another  chair.  A  bell  rings  twice.  He  pays 
no  at  ten  tion.  Then  en  ter  JANETCANNOT, 
L.  CARVE  jumps  up,  but  is  inarticulate, 
though  very  favourably  interested!) 

JANET.    (Smiling  sympathetically!)    I  rang  twice. 
CARVE.     The  bell  must  be  out  of  order. 
JANET.     I  couldn't  be  sure,  but  I  don't  think 

it's  the  bell  that's  out  of  order. 
CARVE.    Oh !     You  think  I'm  out  of  order. 
JANET.     No.     I  was  thinking  that  you'd  only 

just  come  into  the  house — all  you  famous  folk 

— and  you  hadn't  quite  got  it  straight  yet — 

as  it  were.     {Looking  vaguely  at  room!) 
CARVE.    All  we  famous  folk  ? 
JANET.     Well — I  don't  know  myself  about  that 

sort  of  thing. 

CARVE.    What  sort  of  thing  ? 
JANET.     Picture-painting,  isn't  it  ?     I  mean  real 

pictures  done  by  hand,  coloured 

CARVE.     Ah — yes. 

JANET.     (After  a  slight  pause!)     It  struck  me 

all  of  a  sudden,  while  I  was  waiting  at  the 

door,  that  it  might  have  been  left  open  on 

purpose. 
CARVE.    The  front  door  ?    On  purpose  ?    What 

for? 
JANET.    Oh — for  some  one  particular  to  walk 

in  without  any  fuss.     So  in  I  stepped. 


ACT   I.   SCENE   1  19 

CARVE.  You're  the  young  lady  that  Mr. 
Shawn's  expecting (Going  towards  pass- 
age^ 

JANET.  (Stopping  him?)  It's  shut  now.  You 
don't  want  everybody  walking  in,  do  you  ? 

CARVE.  {Looking  at  JANET  with  pleasured)  So 
you're  the  young  lady — Mrs. — Miss 

JANET.  (Ignoring  his  question?)  Was  it  a 
message  you  had  for  me  ? 

CARVE.  No,  no.  Not  a  message.  .  .  .  But — 
the  fact  is,  we're  rather  upset  here  for  the 
moment. 

JANET.    Yes.     Illness. 

CARVE.  Now,  if  it  isn't  an  indiscreet  question, 
how  did  you  know  that  there  was  illness  ? 

JANET.  I  was  standing  looking  at  this  house 
and  wondering  whether  I  shouldn't  do  better 
to  go  right  back  home  there  and  then.  But 
"  No,"  I  said,  "  I've  begun,  and  I'll  go  through 
with  it." — Well,  I  was  standing  there  when 
what  should  I  see  but  a  parlour  maid  pop  up 
from  the  area  steps  next  door,  and  she  says 
to  me  over  the  railings,  "  The  doctor's  just 
been."  Just  like  that,  excited.  So  I  said, 
"Thank  you,  miss."  I  hope  it's  nothing 
serious  ? 

CARVE.     Pneumonia. 

JANET.     Pneumonia.     What  a  mercy ! 

CARVE.     Mercy  ? 

JANET.    If  you  look  at  it  sensibly  it's  about 


20    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

the  best  illness  anybody  could  have  in  hot 
weather  like  this.  You've  got  to  keep  them 
warm.  The  weather  does  it  for  you.  If  it 
was  typhoid  now,  and  you'd  got  to  keep  them 
cool — that  would  be  awkward.  Not  but  it 
passes  me  how  anybody  can  catch  pneumonia 
in  August. 

CARVE.     Coming  over  from  the  Continent. 

JANET.  Oh !  the  Continent.  It's  not  Mr.  Shawn 
that's  ill? 

CARVE.  (Hesitating^}  Mr.  Shawn  ?  Oh  no,  no ! 
It's  Ham  Carve. 

JANET.  (Half  whispering.  Awed)  Oh,  him  \ 
Poor  thing.  And  nobody  but  men  in  the 
house. 

CARVE.     And  who  told  you  thatt 

JANET.  Well !  (waves  her  hand  to  indicate  the 
state  of  the  room,  smiling  indulgently]  I  always 
feel  sorry  for  gentlemen  when  they  have  to 
manage  for  themselves,  even  if  they're  well  and 
hearty.  But  when  it  comes  to  illness — I  can't 
bear  to  think  about  it.  Still,  everybody  has 
their  own  notions  of  comfort.  And  I've  no 
doubt  he'll  very  soon  be  better. 

CARVE.     You  think  he  will  ? 

JANET.  (Blandly  cheerful?)  As  a  general  rule, 
you  may  say  that  people  do  get  better. 
That's  my  experience.  Of  course  sometimes 
they  take  a  longish  time.  And  now  and  then 
one  dies — else  what  use  would  cemeteries  be  ? 


ACT   I.    SCENE   1  21 

But  as  a  general  rule  they're  soon  over  it.    Now 

am  I  going  to  see  Mr.  Shawn,  or  shall  I 

CARVE.    Well,  if  you  could  call  again 

JANET.     You  say  you  hadn't  a  message? 
CARVE.     Not  precisely  a  message.     But  if  you 

could  call  again 

JANET.    When  ? 

CARVE.     (Rather   eagerly?)     Any    time.     Any 

time.     Soon. 

JANET.     Night  after  to-morrow  ? 
CARVE.     Why  not  morning? 
JANET.     Perhaps  morning  is  safer.    Thank  you. 

Very  well,  then.     Day  after  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

I  suppose  Mr.  Shawn  has  a  rare  fine  situation 

here? 
CARVE.    (Shrugging  his  shoulders?)     Nothing 

to  complain  of,  if  you  ask  me. 

(JANET  offers  Iter  hand  quite  simply.    The 

double  doors  open.  CARVE  looks  alarmed?) 

JANET.     Thank  you  very  much.     I  think  I  can 

open  the  front  door  myself. 
CARVE.     I  say — you  won't  forget? 
JANET.    Well,  what  do  you  think? 

(Exit,  L.) 
(Enter  DR.  PASCOE  through  double  doors?) 

PASCOE.  (At  double  doors,  to  HORNING  invisible 
behind?)  Then  there's  no  reason  why  the  nurse 
at  Edith  Grove  shouldn't  come  along  here. 

HORNING.   (Off?}  Yes.    She'll  be  free  in  an  hour. 


22    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

PASCOE.     All  right.     I'll  look  in  there. 

HORNING.  (Nervous?)  What  am  I  to  do  if  his 
respiration 

PASCOE.  (Interrupting?)  Don't  worry.  I'm  not 
gone  yet.  I  must  just  clean  up  my  hypoder- 
mic. Shut  those  doors. 

(HORNING  obeys) 

CARVE.     What's  this  about  a  nurse  ? 
PASCOE.     (Busy  with  syringe,  water,  and  syringe- 
case?)     I'm  sending  one  in.     (Ironically?)     Do 

you  see  any  objection? 
CARVE.     On  the  contrary,  I  should  like  him  to  be 

treated  with  every  care.    He's  invaluable  to  me. 
PASCOE.     (Staggered?)     Invaluable  to  you  \     Of 

course  in  my  line  of  business  I  get  used  to 

meeting  odd  people 

CARVE.     (Recovering  from   his  mistake?)     But 

you  think  I  carry  oddness  rather  far  ? 
PASCOE.     The  idea  did  pass  through  my  mind. 
CARVE.   Nervousness — nothing  but  nervousness. 

I'm  very  nervous.     And  then — you  know  the 

saying — like  master,  like  man. 
PASCOE.     (Indicating  back  room  with  a  gesture  ; 

in  a  slightly  more  confidential  tone  as  CARVE'S 

personal  attractiveness  gains  on    him?)     Mr. 

Carve  odd  ? 
CARVE.     Oh,  very.     Always  was.     Ever  since 

I've   known   him.     You   remember  his   first 

picture  at  the  Academy  ? 


ACT   I.    SCENE   1  23 

PASCOE.     No,  not  exactly. 

CARVE.     Either  you  remember  it  exactly  or  you 

don't  remember  it  at  all.     Life-size  picture  of 

a  policeman  blowing  his  whistle. 
PASCOE.    Yes  ;  it  must  have  been  odd,  that  must. 
CARVE.     Not    a    bit.      The    oddness    of    the 

fellow  - 

PASCOE.     What  '  fellow  '  —  your  governor  ? 
CARVE.     (Nods?)     His  oddness  came  out  in  this 

way  —  although  the  thing  had  really  a  great 

success,   from   that   day   to    this    he's   never 

painted  another  life-size  picture  of  a  policeman 

blowing  his  whistle. 
PASCOE.     I     don't     see    anything    very    odd 


CARVE.  Don't  you  ?  Well,  perhaps  you  don't  go 
in  for  art  much.  If  you  did,  you'd  know  that 
the  usual  and  correct  thing  for  a  painter  who 
has  made  a  great  success  with  a  life-size  picture 
of  a  policeman  blowing  his  whistle,  is  to  keep  on 
doing  life-size  pictures  of  a  policeman  blowing 
his  whistle  for  ever  and  ever,  so  that  the  public 
can  always  count  on  getting  from  him  a  life- 
size  picture  of  a  policeman  blowing  his  whistle. 

PASCOE.  I  observe  you  are  one  of  those  comic 
valets.  Nervousness  again,  no  doubt. 

CARVE.  (Smiling  and  continuing?)  Seeing  the 
way  he  invariably  flouted  the  public,  it's  always 
been  a  mystery  to  me  how  he  managed  to 
make  a  name,  to  say  nothing  of  money. 


24    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

PASCOE.  Money !  He  must  make  pots.  You 
say  I  don't  go  in  for  art  much,  but  I  always 
read  the  big  sales  at  Christie's.  Why,  wasn't 
it  that  policeman  picture  that  Lord  Leonard 
Alcar  bought  for  2000  guineas  last  year  ? 

CARVE.  No,  not  Alcar.  I  think  the  bobby  was 
last  bought  by  Texel. 

PASCOE.     Texel  ?     Who's  Texel  ? 

CARVE.  Collector  —  United  States  —  one  of 
their  kings,  I'm  told. 

PASCOE.  Oh,  him  !  Controls  all  the  ink  in  the 
United  States. 

CARVE.  Really!  That's  what  I  should  call 
influence.  No.  It  was  the  "  Pelicans  feeding 
their  Young  "  that  Alcar  bought.  Four  thou- 
sand. You're  getting  mixed  up. 

PASCOE.  Perhaps  I  am.  I  know  I'm  constantly 
seeing  Mr.  Carve's  name  in  connection  with 
Lord  Leonard  Alcar's.  It's  a  nice  question 
which  is  the  best  known  of  the  two. 

CARVE.  Then  the — governor  really  is  famous 
in  England  ?  You  see  we  never  come  to 
England. 

PASCOE.  Famous  —  I  should  think  he  was. 
Aren't  they  always  saying  he's  the  finest 
colourist  since  Titian?  And  look  at  his 
prices ! 

CARVE.  Yes.  I've  looked  at  his  prices.  Titian's 
prices  are  higher,  but  Titian  isn't  what  you'd 
call  famous  with  the  general  public,  is  he? 


ACT   I.    SCENE   1  25 

What  I  want  to  know  is — is  the  governor 
famous  among  the  general  public? 

PASCOE.    Yes. 

CARVE.  About  how  famous  should  you  say  he 
is? 

PASCOE.  (Hesitating?)  Well — (abruptly)  that's 
a  silly  question. 

CARVE.  No,  it  isn't.  Is  he  as  famous  as — er— 
Harry  Lauder? 

PASCOE.  (Shakes  his  head?)  You  mustn't  go 
to  extremes. 

CARVE.     Is  he  as  famous  as  Harry  Vardon  ? 

PASCOE.     Never  heard  of  him. 

CARVE.  I  only  see  these  names  in  the  papers. 
Is  he  as  famous  as  Bernard  Shaw? 

PASCOE.     Yes,  I  should  say  he  was. 

CARVE.  Oh,  well  that's  not  so  bad.  Better 
than  I  thought !  It's  so  difficult  to  judge 
where  one  is  —  er  —  personally  concerned. 
Especially  if  you're  never  on  the  spot. 

PASCOE.  So  it's  true  Mr.  Carve  never  comes  to 
England  ? 

CARVE.  Why  should  he  come  to  England  ? 
He  isn't  a  portrait  painter.  It's  true  he  owns 
this  house,  but  surely  that  isn't  sufficient 
excuse  for  living  in  a  place  like  England  ? 

PASCOE.  Of  course,  if  you  look  at  it  like  that, 
there's  no  particular  attractiveness  in  England 
that  I've  ever  seen.  But  that  answer  wouldn't 
satisfy  Redcliffe  Gardens.  Redcliffe  Gardens 


26    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

is  persuaded  that  there  must  be  a  special 
reason. 

CARVE.     Well,  there  is. 

PASCOE.  (Interested,  in  spite  of  himself?)  In- 
deed! 

CARVE.  (Confidentially?)  Have  a  cigarette? 
(Offering  case?) 

PASCOE.  (Staggered anew,  but  accepting?)  That's 
a  swagger  case. 

CARVE.     Oh !     {Calmly?)     He  gave  it  me. 

PASCOE.     Really? 

CARVE.  Well,  you  see  we're  more  like  brothers 
— been  together  so  long.  He  gives  me  his 
best  suits  too.  Look  at  this  waistcoat. 
{Motions  the  hypnotised  PASCOE  to  take  a 
cJiair,  They  light  their  cigarettes?) 

(Enter  HORNING.) 

PASCOE.     (Somewhat  impatient?)    He's  not  worse 

already  ? 

HORNING.     Where's  that  brandy  and  water? 
PASCOE.     Be  careful.     He's  had  about  enough 

of  that. 
HORNING.     Seeing  I've  had   no  dinner  yet — 

I   thought    it    might  suit    me.      (Exit  with 

tumbler?) 
PASCOE.     (To   Carve  with   renewed  eagerness?) 

So  there  is  a  special   reason  why  you  keep 

out  of  England. 
CARVE.     Yes — shyness. 


ACT   I.   SCENE   1  27 

PASCOE.     How — shyness  ? 

CARVE.  Just  simple  shyness.  Shyness  is  a 
disease  with  the  governor,  a  perfect  disease. 

PASCOE.  But  everyone's  shy.  The  more  ex- 
perience I  get  the  more  convinced  I  am 
that  we're  all  shy.  Why,  you  were  shy  when 
you  came  to  fetch  me ! 

CARVE.    Did  you  notice  it  ? 

PASCOE.  Of  course.  And  I  was  shy  when  I 
came  in  here.  I  was  thinking  to  myself,  "Now 
I'm  going  to  see  the  great  Ham  Carve  actually 
in  the  flesh,"  and  I  was  shy.  You'd  think 
my  profession  would  have  cured  me  of  being 
shy,  but  not  a  bit.  Nervous  disease,  of  course ! 
Ought  to  be  treated  as  such.  Almost  uni- 
versal. Besides,  even  if  he  is  shy,  your 
governor — even  if  he's  a  hundredfold  shy, 
that's  no  reason  for  keeping  out  of  England. 
Shyness  is  not  one  of  those  diseases  you 
can  cure  by  change  of  climate. 

CARVE.  Pardon  me.  My  esteemed  employer's 
shyness  is  a  special  shyness.  He's  only  shy 
when  he  has  to  play  the  celebrity.  So  long 
as  people  take  him  for  no  one  in  particular 
he's  quite  all  right.  For  instance,  he's  never 
shy  with  me.  But  instantly  people  approach 
him  as  the  celebrity,  instantly  he  sees  in 
the  eye  of  the  beholder  any  consciousness 
of  being  in  the  presence  of  a  toff — then  he 
gets  desperately  shy,  and  his  one  desire  is 


to  be  alone  at  sea  or  to  be  buried  some- 
where deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
(PASCOE  laughs?)  What  are  you  laughing 
at?  (CARVE  also  laugJis?) 

PASCOE.     Go  on,  go  on.     I'm  enjoying  it. 

CARVE.  No,  but  seriously!  It's  true  what  I 
tell  you.  It  amounts  almost  to  a  tragedy 
in  the  brilliant  career  of  my  esteemed.  You 
see  now  that  England  would  be  impossible 
for  him  as  a  residence.  You  see,  don't 
you? 

PASCOE.    Quite. 

CARVE.  Why,  even  on  the  Continent,  in  the 
big  towns  and  the  big  hotels,  we  often  travel 
incognito  for  safety.  It's  only  in  the  country 
districts  that  he  goes  about  under  his  own 
name. 

PASCOE.     So  that  he's  really  got  no  friends  ? 

CARVE.  None,  except  a  few  Italian  and  Spanish 
peasants — and  me. 

PASCOE.  Well,  well!  It's  an  absolute  mania 
then,  this  shyness. 

CARVE.  {Slightly  hurt?)  Oh,  not  so  bad  as 
that!  And  then  it's  only  fair  to  say  he  has 
his  moments  of  great  daring — you  may  say 
rashness. 

PASCOE.     All  timid  people  are  like  that. 

CARVE.  Are  they?  (Musing?)  We're  here 
now  owing  to  one  of  his  moments  of  rashness. 

PASCOE.     Indeed  1 


ACT   I.   SCENE   1  29 

CARVE.  Yes.  We  met  an  English  lady  in  a 
village  in  Andalusia,  and — well,  of  course,  I 
can't  tell  you  everything — but  she  flirted  with 
him  and  he  flirted  with  her. 

PASCOE.     Under  his  own  name  ? 

CARVE.  Yes.  And  then  he  proposed  to  her. 
I  knew  all  along  it  was  a  blunder. 

PASCOE.     (Ironic?)     Did  you  ? 

CARVE.  Yes.  She  belonged  to  the  aristocracy, 
and  she  was  one  of  those  amateur  painters 
that  wander  about  the  Continent  by  them- 
selves— you  know. 

PASCOE.     And  did  she  accept  ? 

CARVE.  Oh  yes.  They  got  as  far  as  Madrid 
together,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  my  esteemed 
saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake. 

PASCOE.     And  what  then  ? 

CARVE.  We  fled  the  country.  We  hooked 
it.  The  idea  of  coming  to  London  struck 
him — just  the  caprice  of  a  man  who's  lost  his 
head — and  here  we  are. 

PASCOE.  (After  a  paused)  He  doesn't  seem 
to  me  from  the  look  of  him  to  be  a  man 
who'd  —  shall  we  say  ?  —  strictly  avoided 
women. 

CARVE.  (Startled,  with  a  gesture  towards  back?) 
Him? 

(PASCOE  nods) 

Really!     Confound  him!     Now  I've  always 


30    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

suspected  that ;  though  he  manages  to  keep 

his  goings-on  devilish  quiet. 
PASCOE.     (Rising:}     It  occurs  to  me,  my  friend, 

that  I'm  listening  to  too  much.     But  you're 

so  persuasive. 
CARVE.     It's  such  a  pleasure  to  talk  freely — 

for  once  in  a  way. 
PASCOE.     Freely — is  the  word. 
CARVE.     Oh !     He  won't  mind  ! 
PASCOE.      (In    a   peculiar    tone.)       It's    quite 

possible ! 

(Enter  HORNING.) 

HORNING.  (To  Carve.}  I  say,  it's  just  occurred 
to  me,  Mr.  Carve  hasn't  been  digging  or 
gardening  or  anything,  I  suppose,  and  then 
taken  cold  after  ? 

CARVE.  Digging?  Oh  no.  He  must  have 
got  a  bad  chill  on  the  steamer.  Why  ? 

HORNING.  Nothing.  Only  his  hands  and 
finger-nails  are  so  rough. 

CARVE.  (After  thinking}  Oh,  I  see!  All 
artists  are  like  that.  Messing  about  with 
paints  and  acids  and  things.  Look  at  my 
hands. 

PASCOE.     But  are  you  an  artist  too  ? 

CARVE.     (Recovering  himself,  calmly}     No,  no. 

PASCOE.     (To  Horning.}     How's  he  going  on  ? 

HORNING.  (Shrugs  his  shoulders}  I'm  sure 
the  base  of  both  lungs  is  practically  solid. 


ACT   I.   SCENE   2  31 

PASCOE.  Well,  we  can't  do  more  than  we  have 
done,  my  boy. 

HORNING.     He'll  never  pull  through. 

PASCOE.  (Calmly?)  I  should  certainly  be  sur- 
prised if  he  did. 

CARVE.     (Astounded?)    But — but 

PASCOE.     But  what  ? 

CARVE.  You  don't  mean  to  say — Why,  he's  a 
strong  healthy  man ! 

PASCOE.  Precisely.  Not  very  unusual  for  your 
strong  healthy  man  to  die  of  pneumonia  in 
twenty-four  hours.  You  ought  to  know,  at 
your  age,  that  it's  a  highly  dangerous  thing 
to  be  strong  and  healthy.  (Turning  away?) 
I'll  have  another  look  at  him  before  I  go. 

CARVE.  (Extremely  perturbed?)  But  this  is 
ridiculous.  I  simply  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do  without  that  man. 

The  stage  is  darkened  for  a  few  moments 
to  indicate  passage  of  time. 

SCENE  2 

TIME. — The  next  morning  but  one. 

Slightly  less  disorder  in  the  room. 
CARVE  and    PASCOE    are    together,    the   latter 
ready  to  leave. 

CARVE.     Will  there  have  to  be  an  inquest  ? 
PASCOE.     Inquest  ?     Of  course  not. 


32    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

CARVE.  It's  some  relief  to  know  that.  I 
couldn't  have  faced  a  coroner. 

PASCOE.  {Staring-  at  him.}  Perfectly  ordinary 
case. 

CARVE.  That's  what  you  call  perfectly  ordinary, 
is  it  ?  A  man  is  quite  well  on  Tuesday  after- 
noon, and  dead  at  4  a.m.  on  Thursday  morn- 
ing. (Looking  at  his  watch.}  My  watch  has 
stopped. 

PASCOE.  ( With  fierce  sarcasm?)  One  of  those 
cheap  German  watches,  I  suppose,  that  stop 
when  you  don't  wind  them  up !  It's  a 
singular  thing  that  when  people  stay  up  all 
night  they  take  it  for  granted  their  watches 
are  just  as  excited  as  they  are.  Look  here, 
you'll  be  collapsing  soon.  When  did  you 
have  anything  to  eat  last  ? 

CARVE.  Almost  half  an  hour  ago.  Two 
sausages  that  were  sent  in  yesterday  for  the 
nurse. 

PASCOE.     She's  gone  ? 

CARVE.     Oh  yes. 

PASCOE.  Well,  take  my  advice.  Try  to  get 
some  sleep  now.  You've  had  no  reply  from 
the  relatives — the  auctioneer  cousin — what's 
his  Christian  name — Cyrus? 

CARVE.    No,  I — I  didn't  telegraph — I  forgot • 

PASCOE.  Well,  upon  my  soul !  I  specially 
reminded  you  yesterday  afternoon. 

CARVE.     I  didn't  know  the  address. 


ACT  I.   SCENE   2  33 

PASCOE.  Ever  heard  of  the  London  Directory  ? 
You'd  better  run  out  and  wire  instantly. 
You  don't  seem  to  realize  that  the  death  of  a 
man  like  Ham  Carve  will  make  something  of 
a  stir  in  the  world.  And  you  may  depend 
on  it  that  whether  they'd  quarrelled  or  not, 
Cyrus  Carve  will  want  to  know  why  he 
wasn't  informed  of  the  illness  at  once.  You've 
let  yourself  in  for  a  fine  row,  and  well  you 
deserve  it. 

CARVE.  {After  a  few  paces?)  See  here,  doctor. 
I'm  afraid  there's  been  some  mistake.  (Facing 
him  nervously?) 

PASCOE.    What  ? 

CARVE.    I— I 

(Bell  rings?) 

PASCOE.  (Firmly?)  Listen  to  me,  my  man. 
There's  been  no  sort  of  mistake.  Everything 
has  been  done  that  could  be  done.  Don't 
you  get  ideas  into  your  head.  Lie  down  and 
rest.  You're  done  up,  and  if  you  aren't 
careful  you'll  be  ill.  I'll  communicate  with 
Cyrus  Carve.  I  can  telephone,  and  while 
I'm  about  it  I'll  ring  up  the  registrar  too — 
he'll  probably  send  a  clerk  round. 

CARVE.    Registrar  ? 

PASCOE.     Registrar  of  deaths.     There'll  be  all 
kinds  of  things  to  attend  to.     (Moving  to  go 
out) 
3 


34    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

(Bell  rings  again.} 

CARVE.     (As  if  dazed}     Is  that  the  front  door 

bell? 
PASCOE.     (Drily}     Quite  possibly !     I'll  open  it. 

(Exit} 

(CARVE,  alone,  makes  a  gesture  of  despair. 
Re-enter  PASCOE  with  CYRUS  CARVE.) 

PASCOE.  (As  they  enter}  Yes,  very  sudden, 
very  sudden.  There  were  three  of  us — a 
nurse,  my  assistant,  and  myself.  This  is 
Mr.  Shawn,  the  deceased's  valet. 

CYRUS.  Morning.  (Looks  round  at  disorder  of 
room  contemptuously}  Pigstye!  .  .  .  My  name 
is  Cyrus  Carve.  I'm  your  late  master's  cousin 
and  his  only  relative.  You've  possibly  never 
heard  of  me. 

CARVE.  (Curtly}  Oh  yes,  I  have!  You  got 
up  a  great  quarrel  when  you  were  aged 
twelve,  you  and  he. 

CYRUS.  Your  manner  isn't  vefy  respectful,  my 
friend.  However  you  may  have  treated  my 
cousin,  be  good  enough  to  remember  you're 
not  my  valet. 

CARVE.     How  did  you  get  to  know  about  it  ? 

CYRUS.  I  suppose  he  forbade  you  to  send  for 
me,  eh  ?  (Pause}  Eh  ? 

CARVE.     (Jumping  at  this  suggestion}    Yes. 

PASCOE.    So  that  was  it 


ACT   I.    SCENE   2  35 

CYRUS.  (Ignoring  PASCOE.)  Ha !  Well,  since 
you're  so  curious,  I  saw  it  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago  in  a  special  edition  of  a  halfpenny 
rag ;  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  office.  (Showing 
paper?)  Here  you  are !  The  Evening  Courier. 
Quite  a  full  account  of  the  illness.  You 
couldn't  send  for  me,  but  you  could  chatter 
to  some  journalist. 

CARVE.  I've  never  spoken  to  a  journalist  in 
my  life. 

CYRUS.    Then  how ? 

PASCOE.  It's  probably  my  assistant.  His 
brother  is  something  rather  important  on  the 
Courier,  and  he  may  have  telephoned  to  him. 
It's  a  big  item  of  news,  you  know,  Mr.  Carve. 

CYRUS.  (Drily).  I  imagine  so.  Where  is  the 
body? 

PASCOE.     Upstairs.     (Moving  towards  door) 

CYRUS.    Thanks.     I  will  go  alone. 

PASCOE.     Large  room  at  back — first  floor. 

(Exit  CYRUS,  L.) 

I  think  I'd  prefer  to  leave  you  to  yourselves 
now.  Of  course,  Mr.  Carve  will  do  all  that's 
necessary.  You  might  give  him  my  card, 
and  tell  him  I'm  at  his  service  as  regards 
signing  the  death  certificate  and  so  on. 
(Handing-  card.} 

CARVE.  (Taking  card  perfunctorily)  Very 
well.  Then  you're  going? 


36     THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

PASCOE.  Yes.  (Moves  away  and  then  suddenly 
puts  out  his  hand,  which  CARVE  takes?)  Want 
a  word  of  advice  ? 

CARVE.    I — I  ought 

PASCOE.  If  I  were  you  I  should  try  to  get 
something  better  than  valeting.  It's  not  your 
line.  You  may  have  suited  Ham  Carve,  but 
you'd  never  suit  an  ordinary  employer.  You 
aren't  a  fool — not  by  any  means. 

(CARVE  shrugs  his  shoulders.) 
(Exit  PASCOE,  L.     Door  shuts  oft) 

(Re-enter   CYRUS    immediately  after  the 
door  shuts) 

CARVE.      (To  himself)       Now    for    itl       (To 

CYRUS).     Well  ? 
CYRUS.     Well  what  ? 
CARVE.     Recognize  your  cousin  ? 
CYRUS.     Of  course  a  man  of  forty-five  isn't  like 

a  boy  of  twelve,  but   I   think  I   may  say   I 

should  have  recognized  him  anywhere. 
CARVE.     (Taken   aback)      Should  you  indeed. 

(A  pause.)    And  so  you're  Cyrus,  the  little 

boy  that  kicked   and   tried   to  bite   in    that 

historic  affray  of  thirty  years  ago. 
CYRUS.     Look  here,   I   fancy   you   and   I   had 

better   come   to   an    understanding   at   once. 

What  salary  did  my  cousin  pay  you  for  your 

remarkable  services  ? 
CARVE.     What  salary  ? 


ACT   I.    SCENE   2  37 

CYRUS.     What  salary  ? 

CARVE.     Eighty  pounds  a  year. 

CYRUS.     When  were  you  last  paid  ? 

CARVE.    I — I 

CYRUS.     When  were  you  last  paid  ? 

CARVE.     The  day  before  yesterday. 

CYRUS.  (Taking  a  note  and  gold  from  his  pocket- 
book  and  pocket?)  Here's  seven  pounds — a 
month's  wages  in  lieu  of  notice.  It's  rather 
more  than  a  month's  wages,  but  I  can't  do 
sums  in  my  head  just  now.  (Holding  out 
money?) 

CARVE.    But  listen 

CYRUS.     (Commandingly?)     Take  it 

(CARVE  obeys) 

Pack  up  and  be  out  of  this  house  within  an 

hour. 

CARVE.    I 

CYRUS.        I    shall    not    argue.  .  .  .  Did    your 

master  keep  his  private  papers  and  so  on  in 

England  or  somewhere  on    i  o  Continent — 

what  bank  ? 
CARVE.     What  bank?      He  didn't  keep  them 

in  any  bank. 

CYRUS.     Where  did  he  keep  them  then  ? 
CARVE.     He  kept  them  himself. 
CYRUS.     What — travelling  ? 
CARVE.     Yes.     Why  not  ? 
CYRUS.     (  With  a  "  tut-tut "  noise  to  indicate  the 


38    THE   GREAT   ADVENTURE 

business  man's  mild  scorn  of  the  artisfs 
methods?)  Whose  is  this  luggage f 

CARVE.    Mine. 

CYRUS.    All  of  it  ? 

CARVE.    That  is 

CYRUS.  Come  now,  is  it  his  or  is  it  yours? 
Now  be  careful. 

CARVE.  His.  (Angrily ,  as  CYRUS  roughly 
handles  a  box?)  Now  then,  mind  what  you're 
about !  Those  are  etching  things. 

CYRUS.  I  shall  mind  what  I'm  about  And 
what's  this  ? 

CARVE.     That's  a  typewriter. 

CYRUS.  I  always  thought  artists  couldn't  stand 
typewriting  machines. 

CARVE.     That  was — his  servant's. 

CYRUS.     Yours,  you  mean  ? 

CARVE.    Yes,  I  mean  mine. 

CYRUS.  Then  why  don't  you  say  so?  What 
do  you  want  a  typewriter  for  ? 

CARVE.  (Savagely?)  What  the  devil  has  that 
got  to  do  with  you  ? 

CYRUS.  (Looking  up  calmly  from  tfie  examina- 
tion of  a  dispatch  box?)  If  you  can't  keep  a 
civil  tongue  in  your  head  I'll  pitch  you  down 
the  front-door  steps  and  your  things  after  you. 

CARVE.     I've  got  something  to  tell  you 

CYRUS.  Silence,  and  answer  my  questions) 
Are  his  papers  in  this  dispatch  box  ? 

CARVE.    Yes. 


ACT   I.    SCENE   2  39 

CYRUS.     Where  are  his  keys  ? 

CARVE.     (Slowly  drawing  bunch  of  keys  from 

his  pocket?)     Here. 

CYRUS.     (Taking  them.)    So  you  keep  his  keys  ? 
CARVE.    Yes. 
CYRUS.      (Opening-    dispatch    box.)     Wear    his 

clothes  too,  I  should  say ! 

(CARVE  sits  down  negligently  and  smiles?) 

CYRUS.  (As  he  is  examining  papers  in  box) 
What  are  you  laughing  at  ? 

CARVE.  I'm  not  laughing.  I'm  smiling.  (Ris- 
ing and  looking  curiously  at  box)  There's 
nothing  there  except  lists  of  securities  and 
pictures  and  a  few  oddments — passports  and 
so  on. 

CYRUS.  There  appears  to  be  some  money.  I'm 
glad  you've  left  that.  Quite  a  lot,  in  fact. 
(Showing  notes) 

CARVE.  Here,  steady!  There's  twelve  thousand 
francs  there  besides  some  English  notes. 
That's  mine. 

CYRUS.  Yours,  eh  ?  He  was  taking  care  of  it 
for  you,  no  doubt  ? 

CARVE.     (Hesitating)     Yes. 

CYRUS.  When  you  can  furnish  me  with  his 
receipt  for  the  deposit,  my  man,  it  shall  be 
handed  to  you.  Till  then  it  forms  part  of 
the  estate.  (Looking  at  a  packet  of  letters) 
"Alice  Rowfant." 


40     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CARVE.     And  those  letters  are  mine  too. 

CYRUS.  (Reading-.}  "  My  dearest  boy  " 

Were  you  Lady  Alice  Rowfant's  dearest  boy  ? 
Anyhow,  we'll  burn  them. 

CARVE.    So  long  as  you  burn  them  I  don't  mind. 

CYRUS.  Indeed!  (Continues  to  examine  papers^ 
cheque  foils >  etc.  Then  opens  a  document^) 

CARVE.  Oh !  Is  that  still  there  ?  I  thought 
it  was  destroyed. 

CYRUS.     Do  you  know  what  it  is  ? 

CARVE.  Yes.  It's  a  will  that  was  made  in 
Venice  I  don't  know  how  long  ago — just  after 
your  aunt  died  and  you  had  that  appalling 
and  final  shindy  by  correspondence  about  the 
lease  of  this  house.  Everything  is  left  for  the 
establishment  of  an  International  Gallery  of 
Painting  and  Sculpture  in  London,  and  you're 
the  sole  executor,  and  you  get  a  legacy  of  five 
pounds  for  your  trouble. 

CYRUS.  Yes  ...  So  I  see.  No  doubt  my 
cousin  imagined  it  would  annoy  me. 

CARVE.    He  did. 

CYRUS.     He  told  you  so  ? 

CARVE.  He  said  it  would  be  one  in  the  eye  for 
you — and  he  wondered  whether  you'd  decline 
the  executorship. 

CYRUS.  Well,  my  man,  I  may  tell  you  at  once 
that  I  shall  not  renounce  probate.  I  never 
expected  a  penny  from  my  cousin.  I  always 
assumed  he'd  do  something  silly  with  his 


ACT   I.   SCENE   2  41 

money,  and  I'm  relieved  to  find  it's  no  worse. 
In  fact,  the  idea  of  a  great  public  institution 
in  London  being  associated  with  my  family 
is  rather  pleasant. 

CARVE.  But  he  meant  to  destroy  that  will  long 
since. 

CYRUS.  (As  he  cons  the  will)  How  do  you 
know  ?  Has  he  made  a  later  will  ? 

CARVE.    No. 

CYRUS.  Well,  then  !  Besides,  I  fail  to  see  why 
you  should  be  so  anxious  to  have  it  destroyed. 
You  come  into  eighty  pounds  a  year  under  it. 

CARVE.     I  was  forgetting  that. 

CYRUS.  (Reading.}  "  I  bequeath  to  my  servant, 
Albert  Shawn,  who  I  am  convinced  is  a 
thorough  rascal,  but  who  is  an  unrivalled 
valet,  courier,  and  factotum,  the  sum  of  eighty 
pounds  a  year  for  life,  payable  quarterly  in 
advance,  provided  he  is  in  my  service  at  the 
time  of  my  death." 

(CARVE  laughs  shortly) 

You  don't  want  to  lose  that,  do  you  ?  Of  course, 
if  the  term  "  thorough  rascal "  is  offensive  to 
you,  you  can  always  decline  the  money. 
(Folds  up  will  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket — CARVE 
walks  about.)  Now  where's  the  doctor? 

CARVE.     He's  left  his  card.     There  it  is. 


42     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CYRUS.     He  might  have  waited. 

CARVE.  Yes.  But  he  didn't.  His  house  is 
only  three  doors  off. 

CYRUS.  (Looking  at  his  watch)  I'll  go  in  and 
see  him  about  the  certificate.  Now  you 
haven't  begun  to  put  your  things  together, 
and  you've  only  got  a  bit  over  half  an  hour. 
In  less  than  that  time  I  shall  be  back.  I 
shall  want  to  look  through  your  luggage 
before  you  leave. 

CARVE.     (Lightly.)     Shall  you  ? 

CYRUS.  By  the  way,  you  have  a  latchkey? 
(CARVE  nods.)  Give  it  me,  please. 

(CARVE  surrenders  latchkey?) 

(CYRUS  turns  to  go — As  he  is  disappearing 
through  the  door,  L.,  CARVE  starts 
forward) 

CARVE.    I  say. 

CYRUS.    What  now  ? 

CARVE.     (Subsiding  weakly)     Nothing. 

(Exit  CYRUS.  Sound  of  front  door  open- 
ing and  of  voices  in  hall) 

(Then  re-enter  CYRUS  with  JANET 
CANNOT.) 

CYRUS.  This  is  Mr.  Albert  Shawn.  Shawn,  a 
friend  of  yours. 


ACT   I.    SCENE   2  43 

(Exit  L.) 

CARVE.     (Pleased^)     Oh!     You! 

JANET.     Good-morning.     D'you   know,    I    had 

a  suspicion  the  other  night  that  you  must  be 

Mr.  Shawn  ? 
CARVE.     Had  you?     Well,  will  you  sit  down — 

er — I  say  (with  a   humorous  mysterious  air). 

What  do  you  think  of  that  chap?     (Pointing 

in  direction  of  hall.} 
JANET.    Who  is  it  ? 
CARVE.     It's    Mr.    Cyrus    Carve.     The    great 

West  End  auctioneer. 

(Sound  of  front-door  shutting  rather  too 
vigorously?) 

JANET.  Well,  I  see  no  reason  why  he  should 
look  at  me  as  if  I'd  insulted  him. 

CARVE.    Did  he? 

JANET.  "  Good-morning,"  I  said  to  him.  "  Ex- 
cuse me,  but  are  you  Mr.  Albert  Shawn?" 
Because  I  wasn't  sure,  you  know.  And  he 
looked. 

CARVE.     (After  laughing?)     The  man  is  an  ass. 

JANET.    Is  he? 

CARVE.  Not  content  with  being  an  ass  merely, 
he  is  a  pompous  and  a  stupid  ass.  (Laughs 
again  to  himself?)  Now  there  is  something 
very  important  that  he  ought  to  know,  and  he 
wouldn't  let  me  tell  him. 


44     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.    Really? 

CARVE.     Yes,    very   important.     But    no.     He 

wouldn't    let   me    tell    him.      And    perhaps 

if  I'd  told  him  he  wouldn't  have  believed  me. 
JANET.     What    did   he    do   to   stop   you  from 

telling  him  ? 
CARVE.    (At  a  loss,  vaguely?)     I  don't  know — 

Wouldn't  let  me. 
JANET.     If  you  ask  me,  I  should  say  the  truth 

is,  you  didn't  want  to  tell  him. 
CARVE.     (Impressed?)     Now  I  wonder  if  you're 

right. 
JANET.     Well,  I  don't  quite  see  how  anybody 

can  stop  anybody  from  talking.     But  even  if 

he  did,  he  can't   stop   you  from    writing  to 

him. 

CARVE.     No,  I'm  hanged  if  I  write  to  him  ! 
JANET.     Oh,  well,  that's  a  proof  you  didn't  want 

to  tell  him. 
CARVE.     Perhaps  it  is.     (After  a  burst  of  quiet 

laughter?)     Pardon    me.     (Reflective?)     I   was 

only  thinking  what  a  terrific  lark  it  will  be. 
JANET.     If  he  never  does  get  to  know? 
CARVE.     If  he  never  does  get  to  know.     If  no- 
body  ever   gets   to   know.     (Resolved?)     No. 

I'll  keep  my  mouth  shut. 
JANET.     As   a  general  rule,  it's  the  best  thing 

to  do. 
CARVE.     You   advise   me  to   keep   my  mouth 

shut? 


ACT   I.   SCENE   2  45 

JANET.  Not  at  all.  I  simply  say,  as  a  general 
rule  it's  the  best  thing  to  do.  But  this  is  no 
business  of  mine,  and  I'm  sure  I'm  not  in- 
quisitive. 

CARVE.  (Solemnly?)  He  shall  go  his  own  way. 
(Pause)  And  I'll — go — mine. 

JANET.  (Calmly  indifferent.)  That's  settled, 
then. 

CARVE.  (Laughs  again  to  himself,  then  controls 
his  features?)  And  that  being  settled,  the 
first  thing  I  have  to  do  is  to  apologize  for  my 
behaviour  on  Tuesday  night. 

JANET.  Oh,  not  at  all.  Seeing  how  upset  you 
were !  And  then  I'm  not  sure  whether  I 
shouldn't  have  done  the  same  thing  myself 
in  your  place. 

CARVE.     Done  the  same  yourself? 

JANET.  Well,  I  may  be  wrong,  but  it  occurred 
to  me  your  idea  was  that  you'd  like  to  have 
a  look  at  me  before  giving  yourself  away,  as 
it  were.  Of  course,  I  sent  you  my  photo- 
graphs, but  photographs  aren't  much  better 
than  gravestones  —  for  being  reliable,  and 
some  folks  are  prejudiced  against  matrimonial 
agencies,  even  when  they  make  use  of  them. 
It's  natural.  Now  I've  got  no  such  prejudice. 
If  you  want  to  get  married  you  want  to  get 
married,  and  there  you  are.  It's  no  use  pre- 
tending you  don't.  And  there's  as  much 
chance  of  being  happy  through  a  matrimonial 


46    THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

agency  as  any  other  way.  At  least — that's 
what  /  think. 

CARVE.     (Collecting  his  wits?)     Just  so. 

JANET.  You  may  tell  me  that  people  who  go 
to  a  matrimonial  agency  stand  a  chance  of 
getting  let  in.  Well,  people  who  don't  go  to 
a  matrimonial  agency  stand  a  chance  of  get- 
ting let  in,  too.  Besides,  I  shouldn't  give  a 
baby  a  razor  for  a  birthday  present,  and  I 
shouldn't  advise  a  young  girl  to  go  to  a  matri- 
monial agency.  But  I'm  not  a  young  girl. 
If  it's  a  question  of  the  male  sex,  I  may  say 
that  I've  been  there  before.  You  understand 
me? 

CARVE.    Quite. 

JANET.  Well,  I  think  I  told  you  pretty  nearly 
everything  important  in  my  letter.  Didn't  I  ? 

CARVE.     Let  me  see  now 

JANET.  I  mean  the  one  I  sent  to  the  office  of 
the  Matrimonial  News. 

CARVE.  {Mechanically  feeling  in  his  pockets, 
pulling  out  papers  and  putting  them  back?) 
Where  did  I  put  it  ?  Oh,  perhaps  it's  in  the 
pocket  of  another  coat.  {Goes  to  a  coat  of 
SHAWN'S  hanging  on  inner  knob  of  double  doors, 
and  empties  all  the  pockets >  bringing  the  contents, 
including  a  newspaper,  to  the  table?) 

JANET.  (Picking  up  an  envelope?)  Yes,  that's 
it — I  can  feel  the  photograph.  You  seem  to 
keep  things  in  the  pockets  of  all  your  coats. 


ACT   I.   SCENE   2  47 

CARVE.  If  you  knew  what  I've  been  through 
this  last  day  or  two 

JANET.     (Soothingly?)     Yes,  yes. 

CARVE.  I  haven't  had  a  quiet  moment.  Now 

(Reading  letter?)  "  Dear  Sir,  in  reply  to 

your  advertisement,  I  write  to  you  with 
particulars  of  my  case.  I  am  a  widow,  aged 
thirty-two  years " 

JANET.  And  anybody  that  likes  can  see  my 
birth  certificate.  That's  what  I  call  talking. 

CARVE.  My  dear  lady  !  (Continuing  to  read?) 
"  Thirty-two  years.  My  father  was  a  jobbing 
builder,  well  known  in  Putney  and  Wands- 
worth.  My  husband  was  a  rent  collector 
and  estate  agent.  He  died  four  years  ago  of 
appendicitis  (Jusitating)  caught " 

JANET.     Caused. 

CARVE.  I  beg  pardon, " — caused  by  accidentally 
swallowing  a  bristle  out  of  his  tooth-brush, 
the  same  being  discovered  at  the  operation. 
I  am  an  orphan,  a  widow,  and  have  no  chil- 
dren. In  consequence  I  feel  very  lonely,  and 
my  first  experience  not  being  distasteful,  indeed 
the  reverse,  I  am  anxious  to  try  again,  pro- 
vided I  can  meet  with  a  sincere  helpmeet  of 
good  family.  I  am  the  owner  of  the  above 
house,  rated  at  forty-five  pounds  a  year,  in 
one  of  the  nicest  streets  in  Putney,  and  I 
have  private  means  of  some  three  pounds  a 
week,  from  brewery  shares  bringing  in  fifteen 


48     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

per  cent.  I  will  say  nothing  about  my  ap- 
pearance, but  enclose  latest  carte-de-visite 
photograph." 

JANET.     I  had  it  taken  on  purpose. 

CARVE.  "  As  to  my  tastes,  I  will  only  say  that 
as  a  general  rule  they  are  quiet.  If  the  above 
seems  in  your  line,  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will 
write  and  send  me  particulars  of  yourself,  with 
photographs. — Yours  truly,  JANET  CANNOT." 
Well,  Mrs.  Cannot,  your  letter  is  an  absolute 
model. 

JANET.     I  suppose  you  did  get  dozens? 

CARVE.  Well By  the  way,  what's  this  type- 
written thing  in  the  envelope  ? 

JANET.  (Looking-  at  it.)  It  looks  like  a  copy 
of  your  answer. 

CARVE.    Oh ! 

JANET.  If  it  isn't  a  rude  question,  Mr.  Shawn, 
why  do  you  typewrite  your  letters  ?  It  seems 
so — what  shall  I  say? — public. 

CARVE.  (Half  to  himself.}  So  thafs  the  ex- 
planation of  the  typewriter. 

JANET.  (Puzzled?)  I  suppose  it's  because 
you're  a  private  secretary. 

CARVE.  (Equally  puzzled?)  Private  secretary ! 
I — shall  we  just  glance  through  my  reply? 
(Reads}  u  My  dear  Mrs.  Cannot,  your 
letter  inspires  me  with  more  confidence 
than  any  of  the  dozens  of  others  I  have 
received."  (TJiey  look  at  each  other,  smiling?) 


ACT   I.   SCENE   2  49 

"  As  regards  myself,  I  should  state  at  once  that 
I  am  and  have  been  for  many  years  private 
secretary,  indeed  I  may  say  almost  companion, 
to  the  celebrated  painter, Mr.  Ham  Carve, whose 
magnificent  pictures  you  are  doubtless  familiar 
with." 

JANET.    No,  I'm  not. 

CARVE.  Really.  "We  have  been  knocking 
about  England  together  for  longer  than  I 
care  to  remember,  and  I  personally  am 
anxious  for  a  change.  Our  present  existence 
is  very  expensive.  I  feel  the  need  of  a  home 
and  the  companionship  of  just  such  a  woman 
as  yourself.  Although  a  bachelor,  I  think  I 
am  not  unfitted  for  the  domestic  hearth.  My 
age  is  forty."  That's  a  mistake  of  the  type- 
writer. 

JANET.    Oh ! 

CARVE.     Forty-five  it  ought  to  be. 

JANET.  Well,  honestly,  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
it. 

CARVE.  "  My  age  is  forty-five.  By  a  strange 
coincidence  Mr.  Carve  has  suggested  to  me 
that  we  set  out  for  England  to-morrow.  At 
Dover  I  will  telegraph  you  with  a  rendezvous. 
In  great  haste.  Till  then,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Cannot,  believe  me,"  etc. 

JANET.     You  didn't  send  a  photograph. 

CARVE.     Perhaps  I  was   afraid  of  prejudicing 
you  in  advance. 
4 


50     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  (Laughs?)  Eh,  Mr.  Shawn !  There's 
thousands  of  young  gentlemen  alive  and 
kicking  in  London  this  minute  that  would 
give  a  great  deal  to  be  only  half  as  good 
looking  as  you  are.  And  so  you're  a  bachelor  ? 

CARVE.     Oh,  quite. 

JANET.  Two  bachelors,  as  you  say,  knocking 
about  Europe  together.  (CARVE  laughs 
quietly  but  heartily  to  himself?)  By  the  way, 
how  is  Mr.  Carve  ?  I  hope  he's  better. 

CARVE.  Mr.  Carve  ?  .  .  .  (Suddenly  stops  laugh- 
ing?) Oh !  (Lamely,  casually?)  He's  dead  ! 

JANET.    (Shocked?)    Dead?     When? 

CARVE.     Early  this  morning. 

JANET.  (Rising?)  And  us  chattering  away  like 
this.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  once,  Mr. 
Shawn  ? 

CARVE.  I  forgot  for  the  moment  I  wasn't 
thinking 

JANET.    Forgot? 

CARVE.  (Simply  and  sincerely,  but  very  upset?) 
Now,  Mrs.  Cannot,  I  assure  you  I  feel  that 
man's  death.  I  admit  I  had  very  little 
affection  for  him — certainly  not  much  respect 
— but  we'd  been  together  a  long  time,  and  his 
death  is  a  shock  to  me.  Yes,  really.  But 
I've  had  to  think  so  much  about  my  own 
case — and  then  a  scene,  a  regular  scene  with 
Cyrus  Carve.  And  then  you  coming.  The 
fact  is 


ACT   I.    SCENE   2  51 

JANET.  (Sympathetically?)  The  fact  is,  you 
scarcely  know  what  you're  doing,  my  poor 
Mr.  Shawn.  You're  on  wires,  that's  what's 
the  matter  with  you — hysteria.  I  know  what 
it  is  as  well  as  anybody.  You'll  excuse  me 
saying  so,  but  you're  no  ordinary  man.  You're 
one  of  these  highly-strung  people  and  you 
ought  to  take  care  of  yourself.  Well,  I'll  go 
now,  and  if  it's  mutually  agreeable  we  might 
perhaps  meet  again  in  a  month's  time — 
say. 

CARVE.  A  month  ?  But  what  am  I  to  do  with 
myself  for  a  month?  Do  you  know  you're 
absolutely  the  only  friend  I've  got  in  London 
— in  England.  We're  never  here.  I'm  an 
utter  stranger.  You  can't  leave  me  like  that 
— for  a  month — four  weeks — four  Sundays. 
I  haven't  the  least  idea  what's  going  to  happen 
to  me. 

JANET.  The  very  best  thing  that  can  happen 
to  you  is  bed.  You  go  to  bed  and  stop  there 
for  a  couple  of  days.  There's  nothing  like  it. 

CARVE.    Yes,  but  where  ? 

JANET.     Why,  here  of  course. 

CARVE.  I've  got  to  be  out  of  this  place  in 
half  an  hour,  less.  The  fact  is,  Cyrus 
Carve  has  been  extremely — er — pert  He's 
paid  me  a  month's  salary  and  I'm  off  at 
once.  In  under  thirty  minutes  I  shall  be  on 
the  streets. 


52     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  I  never  liked  that  man.  Well,  then, 
you  must  go  to  some  nice  respectable 
boarding-house. 

CARVE.  But  I  don't  know  any  nice  respectable 
boarding-house. 

JANET.  Oh!  There  are  thousands  and  thousands 
in  London.  Look  in  the  Telegraph. 

CARVE.     I  haven't  had  a  paper  to-day. 

JANET.  Any  day  will  do.  They're  in  all  the 
papers  every  day.  What's  this?  (Taking  up 
folded  dirty  newspaper  and  opening  zY.)  Now, 
let's  see.  Well,  what  about  this  ?  "A  beautiful 
private  hotel  of  the  highest  class.  Luxuriously 
furnished.  Visitors'  comfort  studied.  Finest 
position  in  London.  Cuisine  a  speciality. 
Suitable  for  persons  of  superior  rank.  Bath- 
room. Electric  light.  Separate  tables.  No  irri- 
tating extras.  Single  rooms  from  two  and  a  half 
guineas.  250  Queen's  Gate."  Quite  close  by  ! 
(CARVE  says  nothing?)  Perhaps  that's  a  bit 
dear.  Here's  another.  "Not  a  boarding- 
house.  A  magnificent  mansion.  Forty  bed- 
rooms by  Waring.  Superb  public  saloons 
by  Maple.  Parisian  chef.  Separate  tables. 
Four  bathrooms.  Card-rooms.  Billiard 
room.  Vast  lounge.  Special  sanitation. 
Young,  cheerful,  musical  society.  Bridge 
(small).  Finest  position  in  London.  No 
irritating  extras.  Single  rooms  from  two 
guineas."  What  about  that? 


ACT   I.   SCENE   2  53 

CARVE.  (Shakes  his  head.}  I  don't  think  I 
should  fancy  it. 

JANET.  I  won't  say  but  what  two  guineas  a 
week  is  a  lot. 

CARVE.     And  I  was  thinking  how  cheap  it  was. 

JANET.  (Staring?)  Well,  of  course,  if  you've 
got  money  to  fling  about. 

CARVE.  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  know  what 
money  I  have  got. 

JANET.  It'll  be  just  as  well  to  find  out  before 
you  get  into  the  street. 

CARVE.  Let's  see.  Well,  there's  seven  pounds 
(showing  if)  and  this  (pulling  silver  and  gold 
from  another  pocket}.  Not  much  is  it?  Six- 
teen shillings  and  sixpence.  It's  true  I've  an 
annuity  of  eighty  pounds.  I  was  forgetting 
that. 

JANET.     (Pleased?)     Have  you  indeed  ? 

CARVE.  Yes.  But  an  annuity  isn't  ready  cash, 
is  it? 

JANET.  (Picking  up  Shawn's  pocket-book?)  And 
this  ?  This  seems  rather  thick. 

CARVE.  I  was  forgetting  that  too.  (Opens  it 
and  takes  out  many  notes?) 

JANET.  My  word!  And  you'd  forgotten  that\ 
You  ought  to  see  a  doctor. 

CARVE.  (Counting?)  Twenty-one  fives,  and 
ten  tens.  That  makes  two  hundred  and  five 
pounds.  (Half  to  himself?}  I  always  knew  I 
was  a  bad  lot — but  where  did  I  collar  all  that 


54     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

from?     (To  Janet?)     I  know  what  I  shall  do! 

I  shall  go  to  the  Grand  Babylon. 
JANET.     The  Grand  Babylon  Hotel?     But  it's 

the  dearest  hotel  in  London. 
CARVE.     In  the  big  towns  we  always  went  to 

the  best  hotel.     It's  cheapest  in  the  end. 
JANET.     You're  very  persuasive,  but  you'll  never 

make  me  believe  you'll  save  money  by  staying 

at  the  Grand  Babylon. 
CARVE.     {Rising  and  beginning  to  collect  things 

— tries  to  fold  up  a  pair  of  trousers?)     Now, 

Mrs.  Cannot,  will  you  do  me  a  favour  ? 
JANET.     You'll  spoil  these  trousers. 
CARVE.     Will  you  come  and  lunch  with  me  at 

the  Grand  Babylon  to-morrow? 
JANET.     But  I've  never  been  in  such  a  place  in 

my  life. 
CARVE.     Remember.     You're   my  only  friend. 

Will   you  come  and   lunch  with  me  at  the 

Grand  Babylon  to-morrow? 
JANET.   (Timidly?)    I  should  like  to.   (Suddenly?) 

Here,  give  me  those  trousers,  do  !     (She  takes 

hold  of  one  leg>  CARVE  retaining  tfie  other?) 

(Enter  CYRUS  CARVE.) 

CYRUS.    Oh ! 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II 

SCENE  i 

Private  sitting-room  at  the  Grand  Babylon  Hotel, 
Strand.  Luxurious  in  the  hotel  manner. 
Telephone.  Door,  L.,  leading  to  corridor. 
Door,  R.  (up  stage],  leading  to  bedroom. 
Another  door  (not  used}  leading  by  a  passage 
to  bathroom. 

TIME. — About  noon  on  the  following  day. 

I  LAM    CARVE   and    JANET    are    talking 
together. 

CARVE.     I'm  really  delighted  to  see  you. 

JANET.  (Examining  his  features?)  But  surely 
you're  not  feeling  very  well  ? 

CARVE.  I'm  not.  Perhaps  it's  these  sleepless 
nights  I've  had. 

JANET.    You're  shivering. 

CARVE.  I  was  wearing  my  dressing-gown.  I 
nearly  always  do  when  I'm  alone.  Do  you 
think  you'd  mind  if  I  put  it  on  again. 

JANET.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  took  it 
off  because  of  me?  (Seizing  dressing-gown 
firmly?)  Mr.  Shawn,  will  you  oblige  me  by 


56     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

getting  into  this  at  once  ?  (She  helps  him  on 
with  dressing-gown?)  What  a  beauty  ! 

CARVE.  Yes.  Cousin  Cyrus  thought  so  too. 
He  didn't  want  me  to  bring  it  away.  Still, 
I  beat  him  on  that  point.  (JANET  arranges 
the  collar?)  Do  you  know,  you  do  me  good. 

JANET.  I  should  think  so.  I  suppose  when 
gentlemen  live  alone  they're  pretty  nearly 
always  unwell,  as  it  were.  If  it  isn't  a  cold, 
it's  stomach,  I  expect.  And  truly,  I'm  not 
surprised,  the  way  they  go  on  !  Now,  will  you 
sit  down  in  that  chair  and  keep  your  legs 
covered — August  or  no  August !  If  you  ask 
me,  it's  influenza  you're  sickening  for.  (Sound 
of  distant  orchestral)  Music  ? 

CARVE.  (Nodding  and  sitting  down  in  easy 
chair?)  Well,  and  what's  the  news  from 
outside?  I  haven't  stirred  since  yesterday 
noon. 

JANET.  Seems  to  me  there's  no  news  except 
your  Mr.  Carve's  death. 

CARVE.  Really!  Is  it  so  much  talked  about 
as  all  that  ? 

JANET.  It's  on  all  the  posters — very  big.  All 
along  Piccadilly  and  Trafalgar  Square  and 
the  Strand  the  newspaper  boys,  and  the 
newspaper  old  men  too,  are  wearing  it  like 
aprons,  as  it  were.  I  read  the  Telegraph 
myself.  There  was  nearly  a  page  of  it  in 
the  Telegraph. 


ACT    II.    SCENE   1  57 

CARVE.     (Staggered?)    Nearly  a  page  of  it  in 

the  Telegraph\ 
JANET.     Yes,  besides  a  leading  article.    Haven't 


you 

CARVE.  I  never  read  obituaries  of  artists  in 
the  papers. 

JANET.  Neither  do  I.  But  I  should  have 
thought  you  would. 

CARVE  Well,  they  make  me  angry.  Obituaries 
of  archbishops  aren't  so  bad.  Newspapers 
seem  to  understand  archbishops.  But  when 
they  begin  about  artists — you  cannot  imagine 
the  astounding  nonsense  they  talk. 

JANET.  (Protesting  against  his  heat?)  Now! 
You're  still  all  on  wires.  Why  should  that 
make  you  angry  ? 

CARVE.  What  did  the  Telegraph  say?  Did 
you  look  at  it  ? 

JANET.  Oh  yes.  It  appears  Mr.  Carve  was  a 
very  eccentric  person — avoiding  society  and 
so  on. 

CARVE.  (Resentful?)  Eccentric!  There  you 
are !  He  wasn't  eccentric  in  the  least.  The 
only  society  hs  avoided  was  the  society  of 
gaping  fools. 

JANET.  Well,  I'm  just  telling  you  what  it  said. 
Then,  let  me  see — what  else  did  it  say  ?  Oh  ! 
It  said  the  sole  question  was  whether  Mr. 
Carve  was  the  greatest  painter  since  Velas- 
quez— is  that  how  you  pronounce  it  ? — or 


58     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

whether    he  was   the    greatest    painter  that 

ever  lived. 

CARVE.     (Interested?)     Really !     It  said  that  ? 
JANET.     (Nodding?)     You  ought  to  read  it. 
CARVE     Upon     my    soul     I     think    I    must. 

(Attempts  to  rise?) 
JANET.    Now,  please,  don't  move.    What  is  it 

you  want? 
CARVE.     I    was   only  going  to  telephone  and 

have  the  daily  papers  sent  up. 
JANET.     Where  is  the  telephone  ? 
CARVE.     (Pointing?)     There. 
JANET.     So  they've  put  a  telephone  in  your 

room? 

CARVE.     Telephone  in  every  room. 
JANET.     (Going  to  telephone?)     Can  I  telephone 

for  you?     I    never  have   telephoned,  and    I 

should  like  to.     How  do  you  do  it? 
CARVE.     Just  take  that  thing  off  the  hook  and 

talk  into  it.    (]h.^W[  gingerly  obeys.}    It  won't 

explode. 

JANET.    What  am  I  to  say  ? 
CARVE.     Tell   them   to  send  me  up  the  daily 

papers  at  once. 
JANET.    All? 
CARVE.    Yes. 
JANET.    But  will  they? 
CARVE.     Certainly. 
JANKT.     (Into  telephone?)     Please  will  you  send 

up  all  the  daily  papers  at  once. 


ACT   II.    SCENE    1  59 

CARVE.  Thanks  very  much.  Now  you  can 
hang  it  up  again. 

JANET.  So  this  is  the  Grand  Babylon  Hotel? 
Well  it's  a  queer  place.  (Her  eyes  rove  round 
the  room.") 

CARVE.     What  are  you  looking  for? 

JANET.  To  speak  plainly,  I  was  looking  for 
the  bed.  I  must  say  I  was  rather  surprised 
when  the  young  man  at  the  desk  said  I  was 
to  go  up  to  your  room.  .  .  .  But  really,  every 
thing's  so  nicely  arranged.  ...  I  suppose  it's 
one  of  those  folding  beds  that  turn  into 
bookcases  and  things? 

CARVE.  (Laughs?)  No.  This  is  my  sitting- 
room. 

JANET.  Your  sitting-room  ?  (Pointing  to  door, 
R.)  Then  that's  the  bedroom  ? 

CARVE.    Yes. 

JANET.  (Pointing  to  another  door?}  And 
what's  that? 

CARVE.  That's  one  way  to  my  bathroom.  In 
a  big  hotel  I  always  take  a  suite,  you  know. 
It's  so  much  more  comfortable. 

JANET.     Isn't  it  rather  expensive  ? 

CARVE.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  didn't  ask 
the  price. 

(Knock  at  door?) 

JANET.  (Charmingly  tart?)  I  suppose  it's 
what  you  call  "cheapest  in  the  end." 


60     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CARVE.    Come  in. 

(Enter  PAGE  with  a  pile  of  papers!) 
CARVE.    Thanks !     Give  them  to  me. 
(Exit  PAGE.) 

JANET.     Well,  I  never !     It's  like  magic. 

CARVE.  Now  let's  just  glance  at  these  chaps. 
(  Unfolding  a  paper?) 

JANET.     Shall  I  help  you? 

CARVE.  Why?  Here's  black  borders  and  a 
heading  across  two  columns !  "  Death  ot 
England's  greatest  painter,"  "  Irreparable  loss 
to  the  world's  art,"  "Our  readers  will  be 

shocked "  Are  they  all  like  that  ?  (More 

and  more  astonished ;  takes  another  paper?) 
"  Sad  death  of  a  great  genius." 

JANET.  (Handing  him  still  another  paper?) 
And  this. 

CARVE.  "London's  grief."  "The  news  will 
come  as  a  personal  blow  to  every  lover  of 
great  painting."  But — but — I'd  no  notion  ot 
this.  (Half 'to  himself?)  It's  terrible. 

JANET.  Well,  perhaps  always  living  with  him 
you  wouldn't  realize  how  important  he  was, 
would  you?  (Distant  music  begins  again ,  a 
waltz  tune?) 

CARVE.  (Reading?)  "  Although  possibly  some- 
thing of  a  poseur  in  his  choice  of  sub- 


ACT   II.   SCENE   1  61 

jects  .  .  .*       The    fellow's    a    fool.       Poseur 

indeed  ! 

JANET.     Look  at  this.     "  Europe  in  mourning." 
CARVE.    Well — well. 
JANET.     What  is  that  music? 
CARVE.     London's     grief.     It's     the    luncheon 

orchestra  downstairs. 

(Telephone  bell  rings.} 

CARVE.  Never  mind  it.  Let  'em  ring.  I 
understand  now  why  journalists  and  so  on 
have  been  trying  all  day  to  see  me.  Honestly 
I'm — I'm  staggered. 

(Telephone  bell  continues  to  ring?) 

JANET.     It's  a  funny  notion  of  comfort  having 

a  telephone  in  every  room.     How  long  will 

it  keep  on  like  that  ? 
CARVE.    I'll  stop  it.    (Rising?) 
JANET.     No,  no.     (Going  to  telephone  and  taking 

receiver?)    Yes?    What's  the  matter?    {Listens. 

To  CARVE.)     Oh,  what  do  you  think  ?     Father 

Looe  and  his  sister,  Miss  Honoria  Looe,  want 

to  see  you. 

CARVE.     Father  Looe  ?     Never  heard  of  him. 
JANET.     Oh,  but  you  must  have  heard  of  him. 

He's  the  celebrated  Roman  Catholic  preacher. 

He's  a   beautiful  man.     I   heard  him  preach 

once  on  the  Sins  of  Society. 


CARVE.     Would  you   mind   saying  I'm  not  at 

home? 
JANET.     (Obviously  disappointed?)    Then  won't 

you  see  him  ? 

CARVE.     Did  you  want  to  see  him  ? 
JANET.     I  should  like  just  to  have  had  a  look 

at  him  close  to,  as  it  were. 
CARVE.     (Gallantly?)    Then     you    shall.     Tell 

them  to  send  him  up,  will  you  ? 
JANET.     And  am  I  to  stay  here  ? 
CARVE.    Of  course. 
JANET.     Well,  if  anybody  had  told  me  this  time 

last  week (Into  telephone?)    Please  ask  them 

to  come  up. 
CARVE.     Perhaps  with  your  being  here  I  shan't 

be  quite  so  shy. 
JANET.     Shy!     Are  you  shy?     It  said  in  the 

Telegraph  that  Mr.  Carve  was  painfully  shy. 
CARVE.      {Protesting?)      Painfully!     Who    told 

them  that,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
JANET.     Now  shyness  is  a  thing  I  simply  can't 

understand.     I'm  never  shy.     And  you  don't 

strike  me  as  shy — far  from  it. 
CARVE.     It's  very  curious.     I  haven't  felt  a  bit 

shy  with  you. 
JANET.     Nobody  ever  is   shy  with   me.   .    .   . 

(Ironically?)     I  must  say  I'd  give  something 

to  see  you  shy. 

(Enter   FATHER    LOOE    and  HONORIA 
LOOE,  announced  by  PAGE.) 


ACT   II.    SCENE   1  63 

LOOK.  (Stopping  near  door,  at  a  loss.}  Pardon 
me — Mr.  Shawn — Mr.  Albert  Shawn  ? 

CARVE.     (Rising,  perturbed.)     Yes. 

LOOE.     This  is  your  room  ? 

CARVE.    Yes. 

LOOE.  I'm  afraid  there's  some  mistake.  I  was 
given  to  understand  that  you  were  the — er — 
valet  of  the  late  Mr.  Ham  Carve. 

HONORIA.  Yes.  Mr.  Cyrus  Carve  told 
us 

JANET.  (Coming  to  CARVE'S  rescue  as  he  remains 
speechless,  very  calmly?)  Now  there's  another 
trick  of  Mr.  Cyrus  Carve's !  Valet  indeed ! 
Mr.  Shawn  was  Mr.  Carve's  secretary — and 
almost  companion. 

LOOE.  Ten  thousand  apologies.  Ten  thou- 
sand apologies.  I  felt  sure 

CARVE.  Please  sit  down.  ( With  special  gal- 
lantry towards  HONORIA.) 

JANET.  And  will  you  sit  down  too,  Mr.  Shawn  ? 
(To  the  LOOES.)  He's  not  at  all  well.  That's 
why  he's  wearing  his  dressing-gown. 

CARVE.  (Introducing^)  My  friend,  Mrs.  Janet 
Cannot. 

LOOE.  Now,  Mr.  Shawn,  if  you  know  anything 
about  me,  if  you  have  heard  me  preach,  if 
you  have  read  any  of  my  books,  you  are 
probably  aware  that  I  am  a  man  who  goes 
straight  to  the  point,  hating  subtleties.  In 
connection  with  your  late  employer's  death 


64     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

a  great  responsibility  is  laid  upon  me,  and  I 
have  come  to  you  for  information — informa- 
tion which  I  have  failed  to  obtain  either  from 
Mr.  Cyrus  Carve,  or  the  doctor,  or  the  nurse. 
.  .  .  Was  Mr.  Carve  a  Catholic  ? 

CARVE.    A  Catholic  ? 

LOOE.  He  came  of  a  Catholic  family  did  he 
not? 

CARVE.    Yes — I  believe  so. 

LOOE.  The  cousin,  Mr.  Cyrus  Carve,  i  regret 
to  say,  denies  the  faith  of  his  childhood — 
denies  it,  I  also  regret  to  say,  with  a  vivacity 
that  amounts  almost  to  bad  manners.  In 
fact,  he  was  extremely  rude  to  me  when  I 
tried  to  give  him  some  idea  of  the  tremendous 
revival  of  Catholicism  which  is  the  outstand- 
ing feature  of  intellectual  life  in  England 
to-day. 

CARVE.     Ham  Carve  was  not  a  Catholic. 

LOOE.  Mind,  I  do  not  ask  if  he  died  in  the 
consolations  of  the  faith.  I  know  that  he  did 
not.  I  have  learnt  that  it  occurred  to  neither 
you  nor  the  doctor  nor  the  nurse  to  send  for  a 
priest.  Strange  omission.  But  not  the  fault 
of  the  dying  man. 

CARVE.     I  lam  Carve  was  not  a  Catholic. 

LOOE.     Then  what  was  he  ? 

CARVE.     Nothing  in  particular. 

LOOE.  Then  I  claim  him.  Then  I  claim  him 
.  Honoria! 


ACT   II.    SCENE    1  65 

CARVE.  (In  a  new  tone.}  Look  here — what's 
all  this  about? 

LOOE.  (Rising-}  I  will  tell  you  at  once  what 
it  is  about,  Mr.  Shawn.  There  is  a  question 
of  I  lam  Carve  being  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

CARVE.  (Thunderstruck}  Buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey? 

LOOE.  Lady  Leonard  Alcar  has  consulted  me 
about  the  matter.  I  may  say  that  I  have  the 
honour  to  be  her  spiritual  director.  Probably 
you  know  that  Lord  Leonard  Alcar  owns  the 
finest  collection  of  Ham  Carve's  pictures  in 
Europe. 

JANET.  I've  often  wondered  who  it  is  that 
settles  whether  people  shall  be  buried  in 
the  Abbey  or  not  So  it's  Lady  Leonard 
Alcar ! 

LOOE.  Not  exactly !  Not  exactly !  But 
Lady  Leonard  Alcar  is  a  great  lady.  She 
has  vast  influence.  The  most  influential 
convert  to  Catholicism  of  the  last  thirty  years 
She  is  aunt  to  no  less  than  four  dukes, 
and  Lord  Leonard  is  uncle  to  two  others. 

CARVE.     (Ironically?)     I  quite  see. 

LOOE.  (Eagerly}  You  see — don't  you  ?  Her 
advice  on  these  matters  carries  enormous 
weight.  A  suggestion  from  her  amounts  to 

CARVE.     A  decree  absolute. 
5 


66     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  (Simply?)  Is  she  what  they  call  the 
ruling  classes  ? 

LOOE.  (Bows?}  Lady  Leonard  and  I  have 
talked  the  matter  over,  and  I  pointed  out  to 
her  that  if  this  great  genius  was  a  member  of 
the  Church  of  England  and  if  the  sorrowing 
nation  at  large  deems  him  worthy  of  the 
supreme  honour  of  a  national  funeral,  then  by 
all  means  let  him  be  buried  in  the  Abbey. 
But  if  he  was  a  Catholic,  then  I  claim  him  for 
Westminster  Cathedral,  that  magnificent  fane 
which  we  have  raised  as  a  symbol  of  our 
renewed  vitality.  Now,  was  he  a  member  of 
the  Church  of  England  ? 

CARVE.     (Loudly?)     Decidedly  not. 

LOOE.  Good !  Then  I  claim  him.  I  detest 
casuistry  and  I  claim  him.  I  have  only  one 
other  question.  You  knew  him  well — inti- 
mately— for  many  years.  On  your  conscience, 
Mr.  Shawn,  what  interment  in  your  opinion 
would  he  himself  have  preferred? 

JANET.  (After  a  pause?)  It  wouldn't  make 
much  difference  to  him  either  way,  would  it  ? 

CARVE.  (  With  an  outburst?)  The  whole  thing 
is  preposterous. 

LOOE.  (Ignoring  the  outburst?)  My  course  seems 
quite  clear.  I  shall  advise  Lady  Leonard 

CARVE.  Don't  you  think  you're  rather  young 
to  be  in  sole  charge  of  this  country  ? 

LOOE.     (Smoothly?)     My  dear  sir,  I  am  nothing 


ACT   II.   SCENE   1  67 

but  a  humble  priest  who  gives  counsel  when 
counsel  is  sought.  And  I  may  say  that  in  this 
affair  of  the  interment  of  our  great  national 
painter,  there  are  other  influences  than  mine. 
For  instance,  my  sister,  Honoria,  who  happens 
also  to  be  president  of  the  Ladies'  Water 
Colour  Society — (gesture  of  alarm  from 
CARVE) — my  sister  has  a  great  responsibility. 

She  is  the  favourite  niece  of (  Whispers  in 

CARVE'S  ear.}      Consequently (Makes  an 

impressive  pause} 

HONORIA.  You  see  my  uncle  is  a  bachelor  and 
I  keep  house  for  him.  Anselm  used  to  live 
with  us  too,  until  he  left  the  Church. 

LOOE.  Until  I  joined  the  Church,  Honoria. 
Now  Honoria  wishes  to  be  perfectly  fair ;  she 
entirely  realizes  her  responsibility ;  and  that 
is  why  she  has  come  with  me  to  see  you. 

JANET.  (Benignantly}  So  that's  how  these 
things  are  decided!  I  see  I'd  got  quite  a 
wrong  notion  of  politics  and  so  on. 

HONORIA.  Oh,  Mr.  Shawn "\ 

and  \     (Together?} 

JANET.     My  idea  was J 

JANET.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

HONORIA.     I  beg  yours. 

JANET.     Granted. 

HONORIA.  There's  one  question  I  should  so 
like  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Shawn.  In  water- 
colours  did  Mr.  Carve  use  Chinese  white 


68     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

freely  or  did  he  stick  to  transparent  colour, 
like  the  old  English  school  ?  I  wonder  if  you 
understand  me  ? 

CARVE.  (Interested?)  He  used  Chinese  white 
like  anything. 

HONORIA.  Oh!  I'm  so  glad.  You  remember 
that  charming  water-colour  of  the  Venetian 
gondolier  in  the  Luxembourg.  We  had  a 
great  argument  after  we  got  home  last  Easter 
as  to  whether  the  oar  was  put  in  with  Chinese 
white — or  just  '  left  out/  you  know  ! 

CARVE.  Chinese  white,  of  course.  My  notion 
is  that  it  doesn't  matter  a  fig  how  you  get 
effects  so  long  as  you  do  get  them. 

HONORIA.     And  that  was  his  notion  too  ? 

(Telephone  bell  rings,  JANET  answers  it.") 

CARVE.     His?     Rather.    You  bet  it  was. 

HONORIA.  I'm  so  glad.  I'm  so  glad.  I  knew 
I  was  right  about  Chinese  white.  Oh,  Anselm, 
do  let  him  be  buried  in  the  Abbey  !  Do  let 
me  suggest  to  uncle 

LOOE.  My  dear  girl,  ask  your  conscience.  En- 
thusiasm for  art  I  can  comprehend  ;  I  can 
even  sympathize  with  it  But  if  this  grave 
national  question  is  to  be  decided  by  con- 
siderations of  Chinese  white 

(CARVE  turns  to  JANET  as  if  for  succour?) 

JANET.    (Calmly?)    The  doctor  is  just  coming  up. 
CARVE.     The  doctor?     What  doctor? 


ACT   II.    SCENE   1  69 

JANET.     A   Dr.    Horning.     He  says   he's  Dr. 

Pascoe's  assistant  and  he  attended  Mr.  Carve, 

and  he  wants  to  see  you. 
CARVE.    But  I  don't  want  to  see  him. 
JANET.    You'll  have  to  see  a  doctor. 
CARVE.    Why  ? 
JANET.     Because  you're  ill.     So  you  may  just 

as  well  see  this  one  as  another.     They're  all 

pretty  much  of  a  muchness. 

(Enter  PETER  HORNING  boisterously.  A 
PAGE  BOY  opens  the  door  but  does  not 
announce 


PETER.  (Perceiving-  LoOE/rj/.)  Ah,  Father! 
You  here?  How  d'ye  do?  What  did  you 
think  of  my  special  on  last  Sunday's  sermon  ? 
(S  /takes  hands  with  LOOE  and  bows  to  MlSS 
LOOE  as  to  an  acquaintance?) 

LOOE.     Very  good.     Very  good. 

PETER.  (Advancing  to  CARVE.)  Mr.  Shawn, 
1  presume? 

CARVE.  (Glancing  helplessly  at  JANET.)  But 
this  isn't  the  doctor  ? 

PETER.  (Volubly?)  Admitted  !  Admitted  !  I'm 
only  his  brother  —  a  journalist.  I'm  on  the 
Courier  and  the  Mercury  and  several  other 
Worgan  papers.  One  of  our  chaps  failed  to 
get  into  this  room  this  morning,  so  I  came 
along  to  try  what  /  could  do.  You  see  what 
I've  done. 


70     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  Well,  I  never  came  across  such  a  set 
of  people  in  my  life. 

PETER.  (Aside  to  LOOE.)  Is  he  in  service  here, 
or  what  ? 

LOOE.  Mr.  Shawn  was  Mr.  Carve's  secretary 
and  companion,  not  his  valet. 

PETER.  (Puzzled,  but  accepting  the  situation?) 
Ah !  So  much  the  better.  Now,  Mr.  Shawn, 
can  you  tell  me  authoritatively  whether  shortly 
before  his  death  Mr.  Carve  was  engaged  to 
be  married  under  romantic  circumstances  to 
a  lady  of  high  rank  ? 

HONORIA.     Indeed ! 

CARVE.     Who  told  you  that  ? 

PETER.    Then  he  was ! 

CARVE.     I've  nothing  to  say. 

PETER.     You  won't  tell  me  her  name? 

CARVE.     I've  nothing  to  say. 

PETER.  Secondly,  I'm  instructed  to  offer  some- 
thing considerable  for  your  signature  to  an 
account  of  Ham  Carve's  eccentric  life  on  the 
Continent. 

CARVE.     Eccentric  life  on  the  Continent ! 

PETER.  I  shouldn't  keep  you  half  an  hour — 
three  quarters  at  most.  A  hundred  pounds. 
Cash  down,  you  know.  Bank  notes.  All 
you  have  to  do  is  to  sign. 

CARVE.  (To  Janet,  exhausted,  but  disdainful^) 
I  wouldn't  mind  signing  an  order  for  the 
fellow's  execution. 


ACT   II.   SCENE   1  71 

PETER.     A  hundred  and  fifty ! 

CARVE.     Or  burning  at  the  stake. 

PETER.     (To  LOOE.)     What  does  he  say? 

LOOE.  Mr.  Shawn  is  indisposed.  We've  just 
been  discussing  the  question  of  the  burial  in 
the  Abbey.  I  think  I  may  say,  if  it  interests 
you  as  an  item  of  news,  that  Ham  Carve  will 
not  be  buried  in  the  Abbey. 

PETER.  (Lightly?)  Oh  yes  he  will,  Father. 
There  was  a  little  doubt  about  it  until  we  got 
particulars  of  his  will  this  morning.  But  his 
will  settled  it. 

LOOE.     His  will? 

PETER.  Yes.  Didn't  you  know?  No,  you 
wouldn't.  Well,  his  estate  will  come  out  at 
about  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand,  and  he's 
left  it  practically  all  for  an  International 
Gallery  of  Modern  Art  in  London.  Very 
ingenious  plan.  None  of  your  Chantrey 
Bequest  business.  Three  pictures  and  one 
piece  of  sculpture  are  to  be  bought  each  year 
in  London.  Fixed  price  £400  each,  large  or 
small.  Trustees  are  to  be  business  men — 
bank  directors.  But  they  can't  choose  the 
works.  The  works  are  to  be  chosen  by 
the  students  at  South  Kensington  and  the 
Academy  Schools.  Works  by  R.A.'s  and 
A.R.A.'s  are  absolutely  barred.  Works  by 
students  themselves  absolutely  barred,  too. 
Cute  that,  eh  ?  That's  the  arrangement  for 


72     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

England.  Similar  arrangement  for  France, 
Italy,and  Germany.  He  gives  the  thing  a  start 
by  making  it  a  present  of  his  own  collection — 
stored  somewhere  in  Paris.  I  don't  mean  his 
own  paintings — he  bars  those.  Unusually 
modest,  eh  ? 

HONORIA.  How  perfectly  splendid !  We  shall 
have  a  real  live  gallery  at  last.  Surely 
Anselm,  after  that 

LOOE.  Quite  beside  the  point.  I  shall 
certainly  oppose. 

PETER.     Oppose  what? 

LOOE.  The  burial  in  the  Abbey.  I  shall 
advise  Lady  Leonard  Alcar 

PETER.  No  use,  Father.  Take  my  word.  The 
governor's  made  up  his  mind.  He's  been 
fearfully  keen  on  art  lately.  I  don't  know 
why.  We  were  in  front  of  everybody  else 
with  the  news  of  Ham  Carve's  death,  and  the 
governor's  making  a  regular  pet  of  him.  He 
says  it's  quite  time  we  buried  an  artist  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  he's  given  instruc- 
tions to  the  whole  team.  Didn't  you  see 
the  Mercury  this  morning?  Anybody  who 
opposes  a  national  funeral  for  Ham  Carve 
will  be  up  against  the  governor.  Of  course, 
I  tell  you  that  as  a  friend  —  confiden- 
tially. 

LOOE.  (Shaken?)  Well,  I  shall  see  what  Lady 
Leonard  says. 


ACT   II.    SCENE   1  73 

CARVE.  (Rising  in  an  angry,  scornful  out- 
burst?) You'd  bury  him  in  Westminster 
Abbey  because  he's  a  philanthropist,  not 
because  he's  an  artist.  That's  England 
all  over.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  hanged  if  I'll  have 
it. 

LOOE.     But,  my  dear  sir 

CARVE.  And  I  tell  you  another  thing — he's  not 
dead. 

PETER.     Not  dead — what  next  ? 

CARVE.    /  am  Ham  Carve. 

HONORIA.  (Soothingly.}  Poor  dear!  He's 
not  himself. 

CARVE.  That's  just  what  I  am.  (Sinks  back 
exhausted.} 

PETER.  (Aside  to  LOOE.)  Is  he  mad,  Father? 
Nothing  but  a  clerk  after  all.  And  yet  he 
takes  a  private  room  at  the  Grand  Babylon, 
and  then  he  refuses  a  hundred  and  fifty  of  the 
best  and  goes  on  like  this.  And  now,  blessed 
if  he  isn't  Ham  Carve !  (Laughs} 

LOOE.     I  really  think  we  ought  to  leave. 

HONORIA.  (To  JANET.)  He's  a  little  unhinged  1 
But  how  charming  he  is. 

JANET.  (Prudently  resenting  HONORIA's  interest 
in  CARVE.)  Yes,  he's  a  little  unhinged.  And 
who  wouldn't  be  ? 

PETER.  Got  'em — if  you  ask  me !  (Moving-  to 
leave.} 

LOOE.     (Moving  to  leave}     Honoria. 


74     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  (Very  soothingly  and  humouringly  to 
CARVE.)  So  this  is  what  you  call  being  shy ! 

CARVE.  (To  JANET,  who  is  now  bending  over 
him?)  It  must  be  stopped. 

JANET.  (As  the  others  go  out ;  humouring  him?) 
Yes,  yes !  (Absently  in  reply  to  bows  and 
adieux  of  LOOE,  HONORIA,  and  PETER 
HORNING.)  Good  morning!  (When  they 
are  gone,  with  a  sigh  of  relief?)  Well,  it  is  a 
mighty  queer  place !  My  word,  how  cold  your 
hands  are!  (Going  quickly  to  telephone  and 
speaking  into  telephoned}  Please  send  up  two  hot- 
water  bottles  at  once.  Yes,  hot-water  bottles. 
Never  heard  of  a  hot-water  bottle  before  ? 

The  Stage  is  darkened  for  a  few  moments 
to  indicate  the,  passage  of  time. 

SCENE  2 
TIME. — Afternoon,  four  days  later. 

JANET  is  dozing  in  an  easy-chair. 
Enter  CARVE  in  his  dressing-gown. 

JANET.     (Starting  up.}     Mr.    Shawn,  what  are 

you  doing  out  of  bed  ?     After  such  a  dose  of 

flu  as  you've  had  ! 
CARVE.    I'm  doing  nothingout  of  bed.   (Twiddles 

his  thumbs} 
JANET.     But  you've  no  right  to  be  out  of  bed 

at  all. 
CARVE.     I  was  afraid  I  hadn't     But  I  called 


ACT   II.    SCENE   2  75 

and  called,  and  there  was  no  answer.  So 
then  I  began  to  argue  the  point.  Why  not 
get  up?  I'd  had  a  tremendous  long  sleep. 
I  felt  singularly  powerful.  And  I  thought 
you'd  gone  home. 

JANET.     Nay — that  you  never  did  ! 

CARVE.     I  did,  honestly. 

JANET.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  thought  for 
a  single  moment  I  should  go  home  and  leave 
you  like  that? 

CARVE.  Yes.  But  of  course  I  thought  you 
might  be  coming  back  sooner  or  later. 

JANET.     Well  I  never! 

CARVE.  You've  scarcely  left  me  for  three  days 
and  three  nights,  Mrs.  Cannot,  so  far  as  I 
remember.  Surely  it  was  natural  for  me  to 
suppose  that  you'd  gone  home  to  your  own 
affairs. 

JANET.  (Sarcastically^)  It  didn't  occur  to  you 
I  might  have  dropped  off  to  sleep  ? 

CARVE.  Now,  don't  be  angry.  I'm  only 
convalescent. 

JANET.  Will  you  kindly  march  right  back  to 
bed  this  instant  ? 

CARVE.    No,  I'm  dashed  if  I  do ! 

JANET.     I  beg  pardon. 

CARVE.  I  say,  I'm  dashed  if  I  do!  I  won't 
stir  until  I've  thanked  you.  I've  been  ill  I 
don't  know  how  many  times ;  but  this  is  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I've  ever  enjoyed  being 


76     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

ill.  D'you  know  (with  an  ingenuous  smile], 
I'd  really  no  idea  what  nursing  was. 

JANET.  (Drily.)  Hadn't  you?  Well,  if  you 
call  that  nursing,  I  don't.  But  it  was  the 
best  I  could  do  in  this  barracks,  with  the 
kitchen  a  mile  and  a  half  off,  and  a  pack  of 
men  that  can't  understand  English  gaping  at 
you  all  day  in  evening-dress.  I  dare  say  this 
is  a  very  good  hotel  for  reading  newspapers 
in.  But  if  you  want  anything  that  isn't  on 
the  menu,  it's  as  bad  as  drawing  money  out 
of  the  post  office  savings  bank.  You  should 
see  me  nurse  in  my  own  house. 

CARVE.  I  should  like  to.  Even  in  this  barracks 
(imitating  her)  you've  quite  altered  my  views 
of  life. 

JANET.  Yes,  and  they  wanted  altering.  When 
I  think  of  you  and  that  other  poor  fellow 
wandering  about  all  alone  on  that  Continent 
— without  the  slightest  notion  of  what  comfort 
is.  ...  Well,  I'll  say  this — it's  a  pleasure  to 
nurse  you.  Now,  will  you  go  back  to  bed  ? 

CARVE.     I  suppose  coffee's  on  the  menu  ? 

JANET.     Coffee  ? 

CARVE.  I  think  I  should  like  some  cafe  au 
lait,  and  a  roll. 

JANET.  (Rising.)  You  can  have  hot  milk  it 
you  like. 

CARVE.  All  right.  And  then  when  I've  had 
it  I'll  go  to  bed. 


ACT   II.   SCENE   2  77 

JANET.     (At  telephone)     Are  you  there? 

CARVE.  (Picking-  up  a  sheet  of  paper  from 
table?)  Hello!  What's  this?  Hotel  bill- 
receipted  ? 

JANET.  I  should  think  so  indeed !  They  sent 
it  up  the  second  day.  (Into  telephoned)  Hot 
milk,  please,  and  let  it  be  hot !  (Hanging  up 
telephone.  To  CARVE.)  I  expect  they  were 
afraid  for  their  money. 

CARVE.     And  you  paid  it  ? 

JANET.  I  took  the  money  out  of  your  pockets 
and  I  just  paid  it.  I  never  said  a  word. 
But  if  you  hadn't  been  ill  I  should  have 
said  something.  Of  all  the  swindles,  of 
all  the  barefaced  swindles !  .  .  .  Do  you 
see  what  it's  costing  you  to  live  here  —  a 
day? 

CARVE.  Oh,  not  much  above  four  pounds,  I 
hope. 

JANET.     (Speechless  at  first)     Any  woman  that 
knew  her   business    could   keep    you   for  a 
month — a   month — for  less   than  you  spend 
here  in   a    day — and    better.      And  better 
Look  here  :  "Biscuits,  is.  6d. !" 

CARVE.    Well? 

JANET.  Well  (confidentially  earnest),  will  you 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  there  wasn't  a 
pennyworth  of  biscuits  on  that  plate?  Do 
you  think  I  don't  know  what  biscuits  are  a 
pound  ? 


78     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CARVE.     Really ! 

JANET.  (Ironically^)  "  Cheapest  in  the  end " 
— but  I  should  say  the  end's  a  long  way 
off. 

CARVE.  (  Who  has  picked  up  another  paper ;  on 
mantelpiece^)  What?  "Admit  Mr.  Albert 
Shawn  to  Westminster  Abbey,  cloisters 
entrance.  .  .  .  Funeral  .  .  Tuesday."  .  .  . 
That's  to-day,  isn't  it  ? 

JANET.    Yes. 

CARVE.  (Moved)  But  you  told  me  he  wasn't 
going  to  be  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

JANET.    I  know. 

CARVE.  You  told  me  Cyrus  Carve  had  insisted 
on  cremation. 

JANET.  (With  vivacity.}  And  what  did  you 
expect  me  to  tell  you  ?  I  had  to  soothe  you 
somehow;  you  were  just  about  delirious.  I 
was  afraid  if  I  told  you  the  truth  you'd  be 
doing  something  silly — seeing  the  state  you 
were  in.  Then  it  struck  me  a  nice  plain 
cremation  at  Woking  was  the  very  thing  to 
keep  you  quiet. 

CARVE.  (Still  more  moved.}  Then  he's  .  .  . 
Westminster  Abbey ! 

JANET.  Yes,  I  should  say  all  is  over  by  this 
time.  There  were  thousands  of  people  for  the 
lying-in-state,  it  seems. 

CARVE.     But  it's  awful.     Absolutely  awful 

JANET.    Why  is  it  awful  ? 


ACT   II.   SCENE   2  79 

CARVE.     I   told  you — I    explained    the  whole 

thing  to  you. 
JANET.      (Humouring,      remonstrating?)        Mr. 

Shawn,  surely  you've  got  rid  of  that  idea! 

You  aren't  delirious  now.     You  said  you  were 

convalescent,  you  know. 
CARVE.     There'll   be    a    perfect    Hades    of   a 

row.     I  must  write  to  the  Dean  at  once.     I 

must 

JANET.    (Soothingly?)     I   shouldn't   if   I   were 

you.     Why  not  let  things  be  ?     No  one  would 

believe  that  tale 

CARVE.     Do  you  believe  it  ? 

JANET.     (Perfunctorily?}     Oh  yes. 

CARVE.     No,    you    don't.      Honestly,   do   you 

now? 
JANET.     Well (Knock  at  door?)     Come  in. 

(Enter  WAITER  with  hot  milk?)     Here's  your 

hot  milk. 

WAITER.     Miss  Looe  has  called. 
CARVE.     I  must  see  her. 

JANET.    But 

CARVE.     I  must  see  her. 

JANET.     Oh,  very  well.    (Exit  WAITER.)     She's 

telephoned  each  day  to  inquire  how  you  were. 

She   asked   if  you   wanted    a    seat   for  the 

funeral.     I  told  her  you  couldn't  possibly  go, 

but    I    was   sure  you'd   like  to  be  invited — 

whether   it   was   the   Abbey  or  not     Please 

don't  forget  your  milk. 


80    THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

(Enter  HONORIA  LOOE  in  mourning, 
introduced  by  WAITER.) 

HONORIA.  (Coming  in  quickly,  bowing  to  JANET 
and  shaking  hands  with  CARVE.)  Good  after- 
noon. Please  don't  rise.  I've  heard  how  ill 
you've  been.  I've  only  called  because  I 
simply  had  to. 

CARVE.     It's  very  kind  of  you. 

HONORIA.  Oh,  Mr.  Shawn,  I  know  you  didn't 
want  him  to  be  buried  in  the  Abbey.  I'm  all 
for  quiet  funerals,  too ;  but  really  this  was  an 
exceptional  case,  and  I  think  if  you'd  seen  it 
you'd  have  been  glad  they  did  decide  on  the 
Abbey.  Oh,  you've  no  idea  how  impressive 
it  was !  The  Abbey  is  always  so  fine,  isn't 
it?  And  it  was  crammed.  You  never  saw 
such  a  multitude  of  distinguished  people.  I 
mean  really  distinguished — all  in  black,  ex- 
cept, of  course,  the  uniforms.  Royalties, 
ambassadors,  representatives  from  all  the 
academies  all  over  Europe.  Rodin  was 
there  ! !  The  whole  of  artistic  London  came. 
I  don't  mean  only  painters,  but  poets,  novelists, 
sculptors,  and  musicians.  The  art  students 
had  a  corner  to  themselves.  And  you  should 
have  seen  the  crowds  outside.  All  traffic  was 
stopped  up  as  far  as  Trafalgar  Square.  I've 
had  some  difficulty  in  getting  here.  The  sun 
was  shining  through  the  stained  glass.  And 


ACT   II.    SCENE   2  81 

the  music  was  magnificent.  And  then  when 
the  coffin  was  carried  down  the  nave — well, 
there  was  only  one  wreath  on  the  pall — just 
one — a  white  crown.  All  the  other  wreaths 
were  piled  near  the  screen — scores  and  scores 
of  them — the  effect  was  tremendous.  I  nearly 
cried.  A  lot  of  people  did  cry.  (Genuinely 
moved.}  There  was  that  great  genius  lying 
there.  He'd  never  done  anything  except  put 
paint  on  canvas,  and  yet — and  yet.  .  .  .  Well, 
it  made  you  feel  somehow  that  England  does 
care  for  art  after  all. 

CARVE.  (After  a  pause?)  And  whom  have  we 
to  thank  for  this  beautiful  national  manifesta- 
tion of  sympathy  with  art  ? 

HONORIA.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

CARVE.  (With  an  attempt  at  cold  irony \  but  yet 
in  a  voice  imperfectly  controlled?)  Did  your 
brother  relent  and  graciously  permit  Lady 
Leonard  Alcar  to  encourage  a  national 
funeral  ?  Or  was  it  due  solely  to  the  influ- 
ence of  the  newspapers  written  by  people 
of  refined  culture  like  the  man  who  gave 
his  opinion  the  other  day  that  I  had  got 
'em?  Or  perhaps  you  yourself  settled  it 
with  your  esteemed  uncle  over  a  cup  of 
tea? 

HONORIA.  Of  course,  Mr.  Shawn,  any  one  can 
see  that  you're  artistic  yourself,  and  artists 
are  generally  very  sarcastic  about  the  British 
6 


82     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

public.  I  know  I  am.  .  .  .  Now,  don't  you 
paint  ? 

CARVE.  (Shrugging  his  shoulders?)  I  used  to 
— a  little. 

HONORIA.  I  was  sure  of  it.  Well,  you  can  be 
as  sarcastic  as  you  like,  but  do  you  know 
what  I  was  thinking  during  the  service?  I 
was  thinking  if  only  he  could  have  seen  it — 
if  only  Ham  Carve  could  have  seen  it — in- 
stead of  lying  cold  in  that  coffin  under  that 
wreath,  he'd (Hesitating?) 

CARVE.  (Interrupting  her,  in  a  different,  resolved 
tone?}  Miss  Looe,  I  suppose  you're  on  very 
confidential  terms  with  your  uncle. 

HONORIA.     Naturally.     Why  ? 

CARVE.  Will  you  give  him  a  message  from 
me.  He'll  do  perhaps  better  than  any- 
body. 

HONORIA.     With  pleasure. 

CARVE.  (Moved?)  It  is  something  important 
— very  important  indeed.  In  fact 

(JANET  goes  into  bedroom,  but  keeping  near 
the  doorway  does  not  actually  disappear?) 

HONORIA.  (Soothingly,  and  a  little  frightened?) 
Now,  please,  Mr.  Shawn !  Please  don't 
frighten  us  as  you  did  the  other  day.  Please 
do  try  and  keep  calm  ! 

CARVE.  I (He  suddenly  stands  up  and  then 

falls  back  again  into  chair?) 


ACT   II.   SCENE   2  83 

(JANET  returns  quickly  to  the  room.} 

HONORIA.     (Alarmed,   to  JANET.)     I'm   afraid 

he  isn't  quite  well  yet. 
CARVE.     No,  I   can't  tell  you.     At  least,  not 

now.     Thanks  very  much  for  calling.     (Rises 

brusquely    and    walks    towards    the   bedroom 

door.} 
JANET.     (To  HONORIA.)    He's  not  really  strong 

enough  to  see  visitors.) 
HONORIA.     (Going  to   door  and  trying  to   be 

confidential?)     What  is  it  ? 
JANET.      (With    tranquillity?)      Oh,   influenza. 

Sometimes   it   takes   'em   in    the    head    and 

sometimes  in  the  stomach.     It's  taken  him  in 

the  head. 
HONORIA.     Charming   man !     I  don't  suppose 

there's  the  least  likelihood  of  it — he's  evidently 

very  well  off — but  if  he  should  be  wanting  a 

situation   similar  to  his   last,   I'm    sure    my 

uncle 

JANET.     (Positively  and  curtly?)     I  don't  think 

so. 
HONORIA.     Of   course    you    know    him    very 

well? 
JANET.     Well,   it's   like  this.     I'm   his  cousin. 

We  aren't  exactly  engaged  to  be  married 

HONORIA.     (In   a   changed  tone?)     Oh,   I   seel 

Good  afternoon. 
JANET.    Good  afternoon. 


84     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

(Exit  HONORIA.) 

CARVE.  ( Who  has  hesitatingly  wandered  back 
towards  centre ;  in  a  quite  different  tone  now 
that  he  is  alone  again  with  JANET.)  What's 
this  about  being  engaged  to  be  married  ? 

JANET.  (Smiling?)  I  was  telling  her  we  weren't 
engaged  to  be  married.  That's  true,  I  sup- 
pose? 

CARVE.     But  are  we  cousins? 

JANET.  Yes.  I've  got  my  reputation  to  think 
about  I  don't  want  to  coddle  it,  but  there's 
no  harm  in  just  keeping  an  eye  on  it 

CARVE.     I  see.     (Sits  down?) 

JANET.     If  nothing  comes  of  all  this 

CARVE.    All  what  ? 

JANET.  All  this  illness  and  nursing  and  sitting 
up  at  nights, — then  I'm  just  your  cousin,  and 
no  harm  done. 

CARVE.     But  do  you  mean  to  say  you'd 

JANET.  (Stopping  him.}  Not  so  fast !  (Pause. 
She  continues  reflectively.}  Do  you  know  what 
struck  me  while  her  ladyship  was  telling  you 
about  all  the  grand  doings  at  the  funeral — 
What  good  has  it  ever  done  him  to  be  cele- 
brated and  make  a  big  splash  in  the  world  ? 
Was  he  any  happier  for  it  ?  From  all  I  can 
hear  he  was  always  trying  to  hide  just  as  if 
the  police  were  after  him.  He  never  had  the 
slightest  notion  of  comfort,  and  so  you  needn't 
tell  me!  And  there's  another  thing — you 


ACT   II.    SCENE   2  85 

needn't  tell  me  he  wasn't  always  worrying 
about  some  girl  or  other,  because  I  know  he 
was.  A  bachelor  at  his  age  never  thinks 
about  anything  else — morning,  noon,  and 
night.  It  stands  to  reason — and  they  can 
say  what  they  like — I  know.  And  now  he's 
dead — probably  because  he'd  no  notion  of 
looking  after  himself,  and  it's  been  in  all  the 
papers  how  wonderful  he  was,  and  florists' 
girls  have  very  likely  sat  up  half  the  night 
making  wreaths,  and  Westminster  Abbey  was 
crowded  out  with  fashionable  folk — and  do 
you  know  what  all  those  fashionable  folk  are 
thinking  about  just  now — tea !  And  if  it  isn't 
tea,  it's  whisky  and  soda. 

CARVE.  But  you  mustn't  forget  that  he  was 
really  very  successful  indeed.  .  .  .  Just  look 
at  the  money  he  made,  for  instance. 

JANET.  Well,  if  sovereigns  had  been  any  use 
to  him  he'd  never  have  left  two  hundred 
thousand  of  them  behind  him — him  with  no 
family.  No,  he  was  no  better  than  a  fool 
with  money.  Couldn't  even  spend  it. 

CARVE.  He  had  the  supreme  satisfaction  of 
doing  what  he  enjoyed  doing  better  than 
anybody  else  could  do  it. 

JANET.     And  what  was  that  ? 

CARVE.    Painting. 

JANET.  (Casually?)  Oh !  and  couldn't  he  have 
had  that  without  running  about  all  over 


86     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

Europe?  He  might  just  as  well  have  been 
a  commercial  traveller.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
Mr.  Shawn,  there's  nothing  like  a  comfortable 
home  and  a  quiet  life — and  the  less  you're  in 
the  newspapers  the  better. 

CARVE.  (Thoughtfully^  Do  you  know — a  good 
deal  of  what  you  say  applies  to  me. 

JANET.  Andyou,  now  !  As  we're  on  the  subject 
— before  we  go  any  further — you're  a  bachelor 
of  forty-five,  same  as  him.  What  have  you 
been  doing  with  yourself  lately  ? 

CARVE.     Doing  with  myself? 

JANET.  Well,  I  think  I  ought  to  ask  because 
when  I  was  stealing  (with  a  little  nervous 
laugh}  the  money  out  of  your  pocket  to  pay 
that  hotel  bill,  I  came  across  a  lady's  photo- 
graph. I  couldn't  help  coming  across  it. 
Seeing  how  things  are,  I  think  I  ought  to  ask. 

CARVE.  Oh,  that!  It  must  be  a  photograph 
of  the  lady  he  was  engaged  to.  He  broke  it 
off,  you  know.  That  was  why  we  came  to 
London  in  such  a  hurry. 

JANET.  Then  it  is  true — what  the  newspaper 
reporter  said?  (CARVE  nods?)  One  of  the 

aristocracy (CARVE  nods)  Who  was 

she? 

CARVE.     Lady  Alice  Rowfant. 

JANET.     What  was  it  doing  in  your  pocket  ? 

CARVE.  I  don't  know.  Everything  got  mixed 
up.  Clothes,  papers,  everything. 


ACT   II.    SCENE   2  87 

JANET.    Sure  ? 

CARVE.     Of  course !   Look  here,  do  you  suppose 

Lady  Alice  Rowfant  is  anything  to  me  ? 
JANET.    She  isn't? 
CARVE.    No. 

JANET.     Honestly  ?    (Looking  at  him  closely?) 
CARVE.    Honestly. 
JANET.    (  With  obvious  relief?)     Well,  that's  all 

right  then !     Now  will  you  drink  this  milk, 

please. 

CARVE.     I  just  wanted  to  tell  you 

JANET.     Will  you  drink  this  milk  ?     (Pours  out 

a  glassful  for  him.") 

(CARVE  addresses  himself \  to  the  milk?) 
(JANET  begins  to  put  on  her  things?) 

CARVE.     But  I  say,  what  are  you  doing  ? 

JANET.     I'm  going  home. 

CARVE.    What  ?    Now  ? 

JANET.     At  once. 

CARVE.     But  you  can't  leave  me  like  this.     I'm 

very  ill. 
JANET.     Oh  no,  you  aren't     You're  very  much 

better.     Anyone   can    see    that.     All   you've 

got  to  do  is  to  return  to  bed  and  stick  to 

slops. 

CARVE.     And  when  shall  you  come  back  ? 
JANET.     You  might  come  down  to  see  me  one 

day  at  Putney. 


88     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CARVE.     I  shall   be   delighted  to.     But  before 

that,  won't  you  come  here? 
JANET.     (After  a  paused)     I'll  try  and  come  the 

day  after  to-morrow. 
CARVE.     Why  not  to-morrow  ? 
JANET.     Well,  a  couple  of  days  without  me  '11 

do  you  no  harm.     It's  a  mistake  to  be  in  a 

hurry  when  you've  got  all  your  life  in  front 

of  you. 
CARVE.     (After  a  pause?)     Listen — have  some 

tea  before  you  go. 
JANET.     No.     (Holds   out    her  hand,  smiling?) 

Good  afternoon.     Now  do  go  to  bed. 
CARVE.     I  haven't  begun  to  thank  you. 
JANET.     No — and  I  hope  you  won't  begin. 
CARVE.     You're  so  sudden. 
JANET.     It's  sudden  or  nothing. 
CARVE.     (Holding  her  hand?)     I  say — what  can 

you  see  in  me  ? 
JANET.     Well,  if  it  comes  to  that — what  can 

you  see  in  me  ?     (  Withdrawing  her  hand?) 
CARVE.      I — I    don't    know    what    it    is.  ... 

Something.  .  .  .  (Lightly?)    I  dunno !     Every- 
thing ! 
JANET.     That's    too    much.     Good-bye!     I'll 

come  about  this  time  the  day  after  to-morrow 
CARVE.     Supposing  I  have  a  relapse  ? 
JANET.    (At  door?}    You  won't  if  you  do  as  1 

tell  you. 
CARVE.    But  supposing  I  do? 


ACT   II.    SCENE   2  89 

JANET.     Well,  you  can  always  telegraph,  can't 
you? 

(Exit.} 

(CARVE,  of ter  finishing  milkt  suddenly  gets 
up  and  searches  on  writing  table:  he 
then  goes  to  the  telephone?) 

CARVE.     (Into  telephone")     Flease  send  me  up  a 
telegraph  form. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT   III 

SCENE  i 

Parlour  in  Janefs  house  in  Putney.  A  per- 
fectly ordinary  suburban  interior  of  a 
small  house;  but  comfortable.  Table  in 
centre.  Door,  R.,  up  stage,  leading  to  hall. 
Door,  L.,  down  stage,  leading  to  kitchen  and 
back  premises. 

TIME. — Morning  in  early  autumn. 

Rather  more  than  two  years  have  elapsed. 

Discovered — CARVE  reading  newspaper  at 
breakfast-table.  JANET  in  an  apron  is 
hovering  busily  near  him. 

JANET.  (Putting  cigarettes  and  matches  down 
beside  CARVE.)  Want  anything  else,  dear? 
(No  answer  from  CARVE.)  Because  I  must 
set  about  my  morning's  work.  (CARVE  con- 
tinues to  read.)  Albert,  are  you  sure  you 
don't  want  anything  else  ? 


ACT   III.   SCENE   1  91 

(As  he  still  gives  her  no  sign  of  attention, 
she  snatches  the  paper  away  from  him, 
and  throws  it  on  the  floor?)  v 

CARVE.      (Not  having  moved  his   eyes?)      The 

pattern  of  this  jug  is  really  not  so  bad.  .  .  . 

Yes,  my  soul  ? 
JANET.     I've  asked  you  I  don't  know  how  many 

times  whether  you  want  anything  else,  because 

I  must  set  about  my  morning's  work. 
CARVE.     Is  there  any  more  coffee  ? 
JANET.    Yes,  plenty. 
CARVE.    Hot  ? 
JANET.    Yes. 
CARVE.    Then   I   don't  want   any.      Got  any 

bacon  ? 

JANET.     No,  but  I  can  cook  a  slice  in  a  minute. 
CARVE.     (With    an  affectation  of  martyrdom?} 

Doesn't  matter. 

JANET.     Oh  yes,  I  will.     (Moving-  away?) 
CARVE.     (Drawing-  her  to  him   by   her  apron?) 

Can't  you  see  he's  teasing  you  ? 
JANET.     She's  got  no  time  in  the  morning  for 

being  teased. 

(She  takes  a  cigarette,  lights  it  and  im 
mediately  puts  it  in  his  mouth?) 

CARVE.     And  now  you're  going  to  leave  me  ? 
JANET.      Sure  you're   all    right  ?      (He  nods?) 
Quite  sure  you're  happy  ? 


92     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CARVE.    Jane 

JANET.     I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  Jane. 

CARVE.  But  I  will  call  you  Jane.  Jane,  why 
do  you  ask  me  if  I'm  sure  I'm  happy  ?  When 
a  man  has  first-class  food  and  first-class  love, 
together  with  a  genuine  French  bed,  really 
waterproof  boots,  a  constant  supply  of  hot 
water  in  the  bathroom,  enough  money  to  buy 
cigarettes  and  sixpenny  editions,  the  freedom 
to  do  what  he  likes  all  day  and  every  day — 
and — let  me  see,  what  else — a  complete 
absence  of  domestic  servants — then  either  that 
man  is  happy  or  he  is  a  silly  cuckoo ! 

JANET.     You  aren't  getting  tired 

CARVE.  My  sweet  child,  what's  the  matter 
with  you  ? 

JANET.  Nothing,  nothing.  Only  to-day's  the 
second  anniversary  of  our  wedding  —  and 
you've — you've  said  nothing  about  it. 

CARVE.  (After  a  shocked  paused)  And  I  forgot 
it  last  year,  didn't  I  ?  I  shall  be  forgetting 
my  dinner  next 

JANET.     Oh  no,  you  won't ! 

CARVE.  And  yet  all  last  week  I  was  thinking 
about  this  most  important  day,  and  telling 
myself  I  must  remember  it. 

JANET.  Very  easy  to  say  that.  But  how  can 
you  prove  it  ? 

CARVE.  Well,  it  does  just  happen  that  the 
proof  is  behind  the  sideboard. 


ACT   III.   SCENE   1  93 

JANET.    A  present? 

CARVE.  A  present.  It  was  all  ready  and 
waiting  five  days  ago. 

JANET.  (Drawing  a  framed  picture  from  behind 
the  sideboard,  and  trying  to  hide  her  disappoint- 
ment, but  not  quite  succeeding^}  Oh !  A 
picture  !  Who  is  it  ?  (Examines  it  with  her 
nose  close  to  it.} 

CARVE.  No,  no.  You  can't  take  a  picture  like 
snuff!  Get  away  from  it.  (He  jumps  up, 
snatches  the  picture  from  her,  and  exposes  it  on 
a  chair  at  the  other  side  of  the  room}  Now  ! 
(He  sits  down  again} 

JANET.  Yes,  it  doesn't  look  quite  so  queer  like 
that.  Those  are  my  cooking  sleeves,  and 
that  seems  a  bit  like  my  kitchen — that's  my 
best  copper  pan !  Is  the  young  woman 
meant  to  be  me  ? 

CARVE.     Well,  not  to  beat  about  the  bush,  yes. 

JANET.     I  don't  consider  it  very  flattering. 

CARVE.  How  many  times  have  you  told  me 
you  hate  flattery  ? 

JANET.  (Running  to  kim}  Now  he's  hurt  Oh, 
he's  hurt.  (Kissing  him}  It's  a  beautiful 
picture,  and  the  frame's  lovely !  And  she's 
so  glad  he  didn't  forget. 

CARVE.  It  is  pretty  good.  In  fact  it's  devilish 
good.  It's  one  of  the  best  things  I  ever  did 
in  my  life.  Old  Carve  would  have  got  eight 
hundred  for  that  like  a  shot. 


94     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  (Sceptically?)  Would  he?  It's  wonder- 
ful how  wonderful  people  are  when  they're 
dead. 

CARVE.  And  now  will  she  let  him  finish  reading 
his  paper  ? 

JANET.  (Handing  him  the  paper,  then  putting 
her  head  close  to  his  and  looking  at  the  paper?) 
What  was  it  he  was  reading  that  made  him 
so  deaf  he  couldn't  hear  his  wife  when  she 
spoke  to  him? 

CARVE.    This. 

JANET.  (Reading?)  "  Ham  Carve's  princely 
bequest.  The  International  Gallery  of  Art. 
Foundation  stone  laying.  Eloquent  speech 
by  Lord  Rosebery."  Oh  !  So  they've  begun 
it  at  last  ? 

CARVE.     Yes,  they've  begun  it  at  last 

JANET.  Well,  if  you  ask  me,  I  should  have 
thought  he  could  have  found  something  better 
to  do  with  his  money. 

CARVE.     As  for  example? 

JANET.  Well,  I  should  have  thought  there 
were  more  than  enough  picture  galleries  as 
it  is.  Who  wants  'em  ?  Even  when  they're 
free,  people  won't  go  into  them  unless  it's  a 
wet  day.  I've  never  been  in  a  free  picture 
gallery  yet  that  wasn't  as  empty  as  a  church. 
Stands  to  reason !  It  isn't  even  a  cine- 
matograph. When  I  see  rows  of  people  in 
Trafalgar  Square  waiting  to  get  into  the 


ACT   III.   SCENE   1  95 

National  Gallery,  then  I  shall  begin  to  think 
it's  about  time  we  had  some  more  galleries. 
If  I'd  been  Ham  Carve 

CARVE.  Well,  what  should  you  have  done, 
witch  ? 

JANET.  I  should  have  left  a  bit  more  to  you, 
for  one  thing. 

CARVE.  I  don't  want  more.  If  he'd  left  me 
eight  hundred  a  year  instead  of  eighty,  I 
shouldn't  be  any  happier.  That's  just  what 
I've  learnt  since  I  took  lodgings  in  your 
delightful  wigwam,  Jane  —  money  and  fame 
have  no  connection  whatever  with  happi- 
ness. 

JANET.  Money  has,  when  you  haven't  got 
enough. 

CARVE.  But  I  have.  You  won't  hear  of  me 
paying  more  than  half  the  household  ex- 
penses, and  you  say  they're  never  more 
than  thirty  shillings  a  week.  Half  thirty 
—  fifteen.  Look  at  the  balance  it  leaves 
me. 

JANET.  And  supposing  I  had  to  ask  you  to 
pay  more? 

CARVE.  (In  a  serious  sympathetic  tone,  startled?) 
Anything  wrong? 

JANET.  Well,  there's  nothing  wrong,  as  it  were 
— yet 

CARVE.  Jane,  I  do  believe  you've  been  hiding 
something  from  me. 


96     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  (With  difficulty  pulls  a  letter  from  her 
pocket?)  No 

CARVE.     I've  felt  it  for  several  days. 

JANET.  You  just  haven't  then.  Because  I 
only  got  it  this  morning.  Here,  you  may  as 
well  read  it.  (Handing  him  the  letter?)  It's 
about  the  brewery. 

CARVE.  (Reading?)  "Mrs.  Albert  Shawn. 
Sir  or  Madam." — Why  are  shareholders  never 
supposed  to  have  any  particular  sex? — "Sir 
or  Madam.  Cohoon's  Brewery,  Ltd., — I  am 
directed  by  the  shareholders'  provisional 
committee  of  investigation  to  request  your 
attendance  at  an  informal  meeting  of  share- 
holders to  be  held  in  room  2009  Winchester 
House  on  Friday  the  2Oth  inst.  at  noon.  If 
you  cannot  be  present,  will  you  kindly  write 
stating  whether  or  not  you  will  be  prepared 
to  support  the  committee  of  investigation  at 
the  annual  meeting.  In  view  of  the  prob- 
ability that  the  directors'  report  will  be  un- 
favourable, and  the  ordinary  dividend  either 
passed  or  much  reduced,  the  committee  wishes 
to  be  thoroughly  prepared  and  armed.  Believe 
me,  Sir  or  Madam."  Oh!  So  that's  it, 
is  it? 

JANET.  Yes.  My  father  said  to  me  before  he 
died,  "  Keep  the  money  in  beer,  Janet " ;  he 
said,  "  Beer'll  never  fail  in  this  country."  And 
there  you  are  1 


ACT   III.   SCENE   1  97 

(She  goes  to  fireplace,  opens  coal  scuttle, 
takes  out  a  piece  of  paper  ready  placed 
within,  and  sticks  it  on  the  handle  so  as 
to  keep  her  hands  from  being  soiled  as 
she  replenishes  the  fire?) 

CARVE.  (Lightly^  Oh,  well!  We  must  wait 
and  see  what  happens. 

JANET.   Supposing  the  dividend  doesn't  happen  ? 

CARVE.     I  never  worry  about  money. 

JANET.  But  we  shall  want  to  eat  once  or  twice 
pretty  nearly  every  day,  I  suppose  ? 

CARVE.  Personally,  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  a 
plain  but  perfect  table. 

JANET.  You  needn't  tell  me  what  you  are 
satisfied  with.  You're  satisfied  with  the  very 
best  at  one  shilling  and  sixpence  a  pound. 

CARVE.  I  can  place  eighty  pounds  per  annum 
at  your  absolute  disposal.  That  alone  will  pay 
for  over  a  thousand  best  cuts. 

JANET.  Yes,  and  what  about  your  clothes  and 
my  clothes,  and  the  rates  and  taxes,  and  bus- 
fares,  and  holidays,  and  your  cigarettes,  and 
doctor,  and  errand  boys'  Christmas-boxes, 
and  gas,  and  coal,  and  repairs  ?  Repairs ! 
A  hundred  and  eighty  is  more  like  what  we 
want. 

CARVE.     And  yet  you  have  several  times  taken 
your  Bible  oath  that  my  half-share  of  it  all 
came  to  less  than  forty  pounds. 
7 


98     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  Well — er — I  was  thinking  of  food 
(She  begins  to  collect  the  breakfast  things?) 

CARVE.  Jane,  you  have  been  a  deceitful  thing. 
But  never  mind.  I  will  draw  a  veil  over  this 
sinful  past.  Let  us  assume  that  beer  goes  all 
to  pieces,  and  that  you  never  get  another 
cent  out  of  Cohoon's.  Well,  as  you  need  a 
hundred  and  eighty  a  year,  I  will  give  you  a 
hundred  and  eighty  a  year. 

JANET.  And  where  shall  you  get  the  extra 
hundred  ? 

CARVE.     I  shall  earn  it. 

JANET.  No,  you  don't.  I  won't  have  you 
taking  any  more  situations. 

CARVE.     I  shall  earn  it  here. 

JANET.    How? 

CARVE.     Painting ! 

JANET.  (Stopping  her  work  and  coming  towards 
him,  half-caressing  and  half-chiding^)  I  don't 
mind  this  painting  business.  Don't  think  I 
object  to  it  in  the  least.  There's  a  strong 
smell  with  it  now  and  then,  but  it  does  keep 
you  quiet  in  the  attic  while  I'm  cleaning  the 
house,  and  that's  something.  And  then 
going  out  making  sketches  you  get  exercise 
and  fresh  air.  Being  with  Ham  Carve  so 
long,  I  expect  you  picked  up  the  habit  as  it 
were,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  you  to  drop 
it.  I  love  to  see  you  enjoying  yourself.  But 
you  don't  suppose  people'll  buy  these  things 


ACT   III.    SCENE   1  99 

(pointing  vaguely  to  picture  on  chair\  do  you  ? 
No ;  there's  far  too  many  amateur  artists 
about  for  that ! 

CARVE.  If  I  wanted,  I  could  take  a  cab  and 
sell  that  in  Bond  Street  inside  sixty  minutes 
at  my  own  price.  Only  I  don't  want. 

JANET.  Now,  just  listen  to  me.  You  remember 
that  picture  you  did  of  Putney  Bridge  with 
the  saloon  entrance  of  the  Reindeer  Public 
House  showing  in  the  corner  ?  It  was  one  of 
the  first  you  did  here. 

CARVE.  Yes,  I  was  looking  for  it  the  other 
day,  and  I  couldn't  find  it. 

JANET.     I'm  not  surprised.     Because  it's  sold. 

CARVE.  Sold  ?  (Excited?)  What  in  the  name 
of 

JANET.  (Soothing  him?)  Now — now !  Do  you 
remember  you  said  Ham  Carve  would  have 
got  .£1000  for  a  thing  just  like  that? 

CARVE.  So  he  would.  It  was  absolutely 
characteristic. 

JANET.  Well,  I  said  to  myself,  "He  seems 
mighty  sure  of  himself.  Supposing  it's  me 
that's  wrong?"  So  one  day  I  quietly  took 
that  picture  round  to  Bostock's,  the  second- 
hand furniture  man,  you  know, — he  was  a 
friend  of  father's, — and  I  asked  him  what  he'd 
give  me  for  it.  He  wouldn't  take  it  at  any 
price.  Not  at  any  price.  Then  I  asked  him 
if  he'd  keep  it  in  his  shop  and  sell  it  for  me 


100     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

on  commission.  Well,  it  stuck  in  Bostock's 
shop — in  his  window  and  out  of  his  window — 
for  twelve  months  and  more,  and  then  one 
day  the  landlord  of  the  Reindeer  saw  it  and 
he  bought  it  for  six  shillings,  because  his 
public-house  was  in  it.  He  was  half-drunk. 
Mr.  Bostock  charged  me  eighteenpence  com- 
mission, and  I  bought  you  two  neckties 
with  the  four  and  six,  and  I  said  nothing 
because  I  didn't  want  your  feelings  to  be 
hurt.  And  that  reminds  me,  last  week 
but  one  they  took  the  landlord  of  the  Rein- 
deer off  to  the  lunatic  asylum.  .  .  .  So,  you 
see! 

CARVE.  {Serious,  preoccupied.}  And  where's 
the  picture  now  ? 

JANET.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it's  in  the 
private  bar  of  the  Reindeer. 

CARVE.    I  must  get  hold  of  it 

JANET.     Albert,  you  aren't  vexed,  are  you  ? 

CARVE.  (Forcing  himself  to  adopt  a  light  tone.} 
How  could  I  be  vexed  with  two  neckties  to 
the  good?  But  don't  do  it  again,  Jane.  I 
shall  go  round  to  the  Reindeer  this  morning 
and  have  a  drink.  If  that  picture  ever 
found  its  way  to  a  Bond  Street  expert's, 
the  consequences  might  be  awkward — 
devilish  awkward.  Because  it's  dated,  you 
see. 

JANET.     No,  I  don't  see.     I  shouldn't  have  said 


ACT   III.    SCENE    1          101 

a  word  about  it,  only  I  wanted  to  save  you 
from  being  disappointed  later  on. 
CARVE.     (In  a  new  casual  tone.)    Just  get  me 
my  cash-box,  will  you? 

(JANET  at  once  produces  the  cash-box  from 
a  drawer?) 

JANET.  And  what  now?  I'm  not  broke  yet, 
you  great  silly.  (Laughs,  but  is  rather  intimid- 
ated by  CARVE'S  air.) 

CARVE.  (Having  unlocked  box  and  taken  a  bag 
from  it.)  You  see  that  ?  (He  showers  gold 
out  of  it.)  Well,  count  it ! 

JANET.  Gracious !  Ten — fifteen — eighteen — 
twenty  ? — two  —  four  —  twenty-six  pounds. 
These  your  savings  ? 

CARVE.  That's  what  I've  earned  with  painting 
just  at  odd  times. 

JANET.  Really?  (CARVE  nods.)  You  could 
knock  me  down  with  a  feather ! 

CARVE.  I'll  tell  you.  You  know  the  frame- 
maker's  next  to  Salmon  and  Gluckstein's.  I 
buy  my  colours  and  canvases  and  things  there. 
They  cost  money.  I  owed  the  chap  two  pounds 
once,  and  one  morning,  in  the  shop,  when 
I  was  opening  my  box  to  put  some  new  tubes 
in,  he  saw  one  of  my  pictures  all  wet.  He 
offered  of  his  own  accord  to  take  it  for  what 
I  owed  him.  I  wouldn't  let  him  have  it 


But  I  was  rather  hard  up,  so  I  said  I'd  do 
him  another  instead,  and  I  did  him  one  in  a 
different  style  and  not  half  as  good,  and  of 
course  he  liked  it  even  better.  Since  then, 
I've  done  him  quite  a  few.  It  isn't  that  I've 
needed  the  money;  but  it's  a  margin,  and 
colours  and  frames,  etc.  come  to  a  dickens  of 
a  lot  in  a  year. 

JANET.  (Staggered?)  And  whatever  does  he 
do  with  them  ? 

CARVE.  With  the  pictures  ?  Don't  know.  I've 
never  seen  one  in  his  window.  I  haven't  been 
selling  him  any  lately. 

JANET.    Why  ? 

CARVE.  Oh,  I  didn't  feel  like  it.  And  the 
things  were  getting  too  good.  But,  of  course, 
I  can  start  again  any  time. 

JANET.  (Still  staggered?}  Two  pounds  a  piece  ? 
(CARVE  nods?}  Would  he  give  you  two  pounds 
for  that  ?  (Pointing  to  portrait?} 

CARVE.     You  bet  he  would. 

JANET.  Why !  Two  pounds  would  keep  us  for 
the  best  part  of  a  week.  How  long  does  it 
take  you  to  do  one  ? 

(Noise  of  motor  car  outside?} 

CARVE.     Oh,  three  or  four  hours.     I  work  pretty 

quickly. 
JANET.     Well,    it's    like    a    fairy    tale.     Two 


ACT    III.    SCENE    1  103 

pounds !     I  don't  know  whether  I'm  standing 
on  my  head  or  my  heels  ! 

(Violent  ringing-  at  front  door  bell.) 

CARVE.     There's  one  of  your  tradesmen. 
JANET.     It  isn't.     They  know  better  than  come 
to  my  front  door.     They  know  I  won't  have  it 

(Exit,  throwing  off  apron.) 

(CARVE  examines  the  portrait  of  his  wife 
with  evident  pleasure?) 

CARVE.  (To  himself?)  That  'ud  make  'em  sit 
up  in  Bond  Street.  (Laughs  grimly) 

(Voices  off.     Re-enter  J  A  NET ,  followed  by 
EBAG  carrying  a  picture) 

JANET.  Well,  it  never  rains  but  it  pours. 
Here's  a  gentleman  in  a  motor  car  wants  to 
know  if  you've  got  any  pictures  for  sale.  (She 
calmly  conceals  her  apron) 

EBAG.  (With  diplomatic  caution  and  much 
deference)  Good-morning. 

CARVE.  (  Whose  entire  demeanour  has  suddenly 
changed  into  hostility)  Good-morning. 

EBAG.  I've  been  buying  some  very  delightful 
little  things  of  yours  from  a  man  that  calls 
himself  a  picture-dealer  and  frame-maker 
(ironically)  in  the  High  Street  here.  I 
persuaded  him  —  not  without  difficulty  —  to 
give  me  your  address.  And  I've  ventured  tc 


call  just  to  see  if  by  chance  you  have  anything 

for  sale. 

CARVE.     By  chance  I  haven't ! 
EBAG.     Nothing  at  all  ? 
CARVE.     Not  a  square  inch. 
EBAG.     (Catching   sight    of  Janets  portrait?) 

Pardon  me.     May  I  look  ? 
JANET.    Oh,  do ! 
EBAG.     A  brilliant  likeness. 
JANET.    Who  of? 

EBAG.     Why,   madam — yourself?     The    atti- 
tude is  extraordinarily  expressive.     And  if  I 

may  say  so  (glancing  at  CARVE)  the  placing 

of  the  high  lights — those  white   sleevelets — 

what  d'you  call  them  ? 

JANET.    Why !    Those  are  my  cooking-sleeves ! 
EBAG.    (Quietly?)    Yes — well — it's  genius — mere 

genius. 
JANET.      (Looking   at  picture    afresh?)      It    is 

rather  pretty  when  you  come  to  look  at  it. 
EBAG.      It    is    a    masterpiece,    madam.      (To 

CARVE.)     Then  I  may  not  make  an  offer  for  it  ? 
CARVE.    No. 
JANET.     Excuse   me,   Albert.     Why   shouldn't 

the  gentleman  make  an  offer  for  it  ? 
EBAG.     (Quickly  seizing  an  opportunity?)     If  you 

cared  to  consider,  say,  five  hundred  pounds. 

JANET.     Five  hundred  p 

EBAG.     I  came  down  quite  prepared  to  spend — 

and  to  pay  cash.     (Fingers  his  pocket-book?) 


ACT   III.    SCENE    1          105 

JANET.  (Sitting  down.}  And  if  it  isn't  a  rude 
question — do  you  generally  go  about  with  five 
hundred  pounds  in  your  pocket,  as  it  were  ? 

EBAG.  (Raising-  his  hands.}  In  my  business, 
madam 

CARVE.     It's  not  for  sale.     (Turns  it  round.} 

JANET.  ( Vivaciously.}  Oh  yes,  it  is.  Somebody 
in  this  house  must  think  about  the  future. 
(Cajolingly}  If  this  gentleman  can  show  me 
five  hundred  pounds  it's  for  sale.  After  all, 
it's  my  picture.  And  you  can  do  me  another 
one.  I'd  much  sooner  be  done  without  the 
cooking-sleeves.  (Entreating.}  Albert ! 

CARVE.     (Shy,  nervous,  and  tongue-tied}     Well ! 

JANET.  (Endearingly}  That's  right!  That's 
all  right ! 

EBAG.  (Putting  down  notes.}  If  you  will  kindly 
count  these 

JANET.  (Taking  the  notes}  Nay,  I'm  too  dizzy 
to  count  them.  (As  if  giving  up  any  attempt 
to  realize  the  situation?)  It  fairly  beats  me! 
I  never  did  understand  this  art  business,  and  I 
never  shall.  .  .  .  (To  EBAG.)  Why  are  you 
so  interested  in  my  portrait?  You've  never 
seen  me  before. 

EBAG.  Madam,  your  portrait  happens  to  be 
one  of  the  very  finest  modern  paintings  I  ever 
saw.  (  To  CARVE.)  I  have  a  picture  here  as 
to  which  I  should  like  to  ask  your  opinion. 
(Exposing  pictured)  I  bought  it  ten  years  ago. 


106     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CARVE.     {After  seeing  picture?)     Janet,    would 

you  mind  leaving  us  a  minute. 
JANET.     (Triumphant  with  her  money)     Not  a 

bit. 

(Exit,  L.) 

EBAG.  (Bowing- to  JANET.  Then  to  CARVE.)  It's 
signed  "  Ham  Carve."  Should  you  say  it's  a 
genuine  Carve  ? 

CARVE.     (More  and  more  disturbed?}     Yes. 

EBAG.     Where  was  it  painted  ? 

CARVE.     Why  do  you  ask  me  ? 

EBAG.  (Quietly  dramatic?)  Because  you  painted 
it.  (Pause.  He  approaches  CARVE.)  Master 

CARVE.     What's  that  ? 

EBAG.     Master ! 

(Pause.) 

CARVE.  (Impulsively?)  Look  here!  I  never 
could  stick  being  called  "  master  "  !  It's  worse 
even  than  "  maitre."  Have  a  cigarette  ?  How 
did  you  find  out  who  I  was  ? 

EBAG.  (Pointing  to  Janet's  portrait?)  Isn't  that 
proof  enough  ? 

CARVE.  Yes,  but  you  knew  before  you  saw 
that. 

EBAG.  (After  lighting  cigarette?)  I  did.  I 
knew  from  the  very  first  picture  I  bought 
from  our  friend  the  "  picture-dealer  and  frame- 
maker  "  in  the  early  part  of  last  year. 


ACT   III.    SCENE   1          107 

CARVE.  But  I'd  completely  altered  my  style. 
I  altered  it  on  purpose. 

EBAG.  (Shaking  his  head?)  My  dear  sir,  there 
was  once  a  well-known  man  who  stood  six 
feet  ten  inches  high.  He  shaved  off  his  beard 
and  dyed  his  hair,  and  invented  a  very  in- 
genious costume,  and  went  to  a  Fancy  Dress 
Ball  as  Tom  Thumb.  Strange  to  say,  his 
disguise  was  penetrated  immediately. 

CARVE.     Who  are  you  ? 

EBAG.     My  name  is  Ebag — New  Bond  Street. 

CARVE.     What !     You're  my  old  dealer ! 

EBAG.  And  I'm  delighted  at  last  to  make  your 
acquaintance,  sir.  It  wasn't  until  I'd  bought 
several  of  those  small  canvases  from  the 
Putney  man  that  I  began  to  inquire  closely 
into  their  origin.  As  a  general  rule  it's  a 
mistake  for  a  dealer  to  be  too  curious.  But 
my  curiosity  got  the  better  of  me.  And  when 
I  found  out  that  the  pictures  were  being 
produced  week  by  week,  fresh,  then  I  knew  I 
was  on  the  edge  of  some  mystery. 

CARVE.  (Awkwardly?)  The  fact  is,  perhaps,  I 
ought  to  explain. 

EBAG.  Pardon  me.  I  ask  nothing.  It  isn't 
my  affair.  I  felt  certain,  solely  from  the 
evidence  of  what  I  was  buying,  that  the  great 
painter  who  was  supposed  to  be  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  whose  somewhat 
premature  funeral  I  attended,  must  be  alive 


108     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

and  painting  vigorously.  I  wanted  the  as- 
surance from  your  lips.  I  have  it.  The  rest 
does  not  concern  me — at  any  rate,  for  the 
moment. 

CARVE.  I'll  say  this — you  know  a  picture  when 
you  see  it. 

EBAG.  (Proudly^)  I  am  an  expert,  nothing 
else. 

CARVE.  All  right !  Well,  I'll  only  ask  you  to 
persevere  in  your  discretion.  As  you  say,  it 
isn't  your  affair.  Thank  goodness,  I  didn't 
put  a  date  on  any  of  these  things.  I  won't 
sell  any  more.  I'd  take  an  oath  never  to 
paint  again,  only  I  know  I  should  go  and 
break  it  next  week.  I  shall  rely  on  this 
famous  discretion  of  yours  to  say  nothing — 
nothing  whatever. 

EBAG.     I'm  afraid  it's  too  late. 

CARVE.     How  too  late  ? 

EBAG.  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to 
state  publicly  that  you  are  Ham  Carve,  and 
that  there  must  have  been — er — some  mis- 
apprehension, somewhere,  over  that  funeral. 

CARVE.     (Aghast^     Publicly?     Why? 

EBAG.  It's  like  this,  I've  been  selling  those 
pictures  to  Texel  in  New  York.  You  re- 
member, he's  always  been  one  of  your  principal 
collectors.  He's  getting  old,  and  he's  half- 
blind,  but  he  still  buys.  Now,  1  rely  on  my 
judgment,  and  I  guaranteed  those  pictures  to 


ACT   III.   SCENE   1          109 

be   genuine    Carves.     Well,    somebody   over 

there  must  have  had  suspicions. 
CARVE.     What  does  that  matter?     There  isn't 

a  date  on  any  of  them. 
EBAG.    Just  so.     But  in  one  of  those  pictures 

there's  most  distinctly  a  taxi-cab.     It  isn't  a 

private  motor  car.     It's  a  taxi. 
CARVE.     And    if   there    is?     No   law   against 

painting  a  taxi,  I  hope ! 
EEAG.     {Again  quietly  dramatic?)     No.     But  at 

the  date  of  your  funeral  there  wasn't  a  single 

taxi  on  the  streets  of  London. 
CARVE.     The  devil ! 
EBAG.     Exactly.     Texel  is  bringing  an  action 

against    me   for    misrepresentation.     I    shall 

have  to  ask   you   to  give  evidence  and  say 

who  you  are. 
CARVE.    (Angrily?}    But  I  won't  give  evidence ! 

You've  brought  this  on  yourself.     How  much 

did  you  sell  those  little  pictures  for  ? 
EBAG.     Oh,  an   average  of  between   four  and 

five  hundred. 
CARVE.     And  what  did  you  pay  for  them  ?     f 

ask  you,  what  did  you  pay  for  them  ? 
EBAG.     (Smoothly?)    Four  pounds  a  piece.     The 

fact  is — I  did  rather  well  out  of  them. 
CARVE.     Damned  Jew ! 
EBAG.     (Smoothly?)     Damned — possibly.     Jew 

— most    decidedly.     But    in    this    particular 

instance  I  behaved  just  like  a  Christian.     I 


110     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

paid  a  little  less  than  I  was  asked,  and  sold 
for  the  highest  I  could  get.  I  am  perfectly 
innocent,  and  my  reputation  is  at  stake. 

CARVE.     I  don't  care. 

EBAG.  But  I  do.  It's  the  reputation  of  the 
greatest  expert  in  Europe.  And  I  shall  have 
to  insist  on  you  going  into  the  witness- 
box. 

CARVE.  (Horrified?)  Me  in  the  witness-box ! 
Me  cross-examined !  No.  That's  always 
been  my  nightmare ! 

EBAG.     Nevertheless 

CARVE.     Please    go.     (Commandingly?)     Please 

go- 

(EBAG,  intimidated  by  CARVE'S  demeanour, 
picks  up  his  pictures  to  depart?) 

EBAG.  (At  door?)  Your  wife  will  perhaps  be 
good  enough  to  post  me  a  receipt  for  that 
trifle.  ( Very  respectfully?)  Good-morning. 

(Exit,  R.) 

(CARVE  goes  to  door,  L.,  and  opens  it. 
JANET  is  standing  behind  it.} 

(Enter  JANET.) 

CARVE.  You've  been  listening? 
JANET.  (Counting  her  banknotes?)     Well,  natur- 
ally 1  (Putting  notes  in  her  purse?) 
CARVE.  Here's  a  perfect  Hades  of  a  mess. 


ACT   III.   SCENE   1          111 

JANET.     And  it  all  comes  of  this  painting.     Art 

as  it's  called.     (She  finds  her  apron  and  puts 

it  on.} 
CARVE.     (With    an    air    of   discovery?)     Your 

faculty    for    keeping    calm    really    is    most 

singular. 
JANET.     Somebody  has  to  keep  calm. 

(Voice  off:  "Butcher.") 

CARVE.  Anybody  would  say  you  didn't  care  a 
cent  whether  I'm  Ham  Carve  or  whether  I'm 
somebody  else. 

JANET.  What  does  it  matter  to  me  who  you 
are,  so  long  as  you're  you?  Men  are  so 
unpractical.  You  can  be  the  Shah  of  Persia 
if  you  like — I  don't  mind. 

CARVE.     But  aren't  you  convinced  now  ? 

(Voice  off:  "Butcher.") 

JANET.  (With  an  enigmatic  smile  at  CARVE.) 
Coming!  Coming! 

(Exit) 

(The   stage   is    darkened  to  indicate  the 
passage  of  several  montlts.} 


112     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 


SCENE  2 

TIME. — Before  daylight  on  a  morning  in  Feb- 
ruary. Fire  burning  in  grate.  Also  a  speck 
of  gas.  Otherwise  it  is  dark. 

CARVE  is  discovered  reposing  in  an  easy- 
chair.     Enter  JANET  with  a  candle. 

JANET.     (Stiffly.}     So  you've  not  been  to  sleep 

either  ? 
CARVE.     (Stiffly?)     Oh  yes;    had   an  excellent 

night  in  this  chair. 

JANET.    (Going  to  fire?)    Now,  you're  only  boast- 
ing.    If  you've  had  such  an  excellent  night 

(imitating  him],  who's  kept  up  such  an  excellent 

fire? 
CARVE.     (Lamely).     Well,   of  course    I   looked 

after  it  now  and  then.     I  didn't  want  to  perish 

in  my  solitude. 
JANET.     Then   why  didn't  you   come  to  bed, 

great  baby? 
CARVE.     (Sitting  up  with  solemnity?)    Janet,  we 

are  a  pair  of  great  babies  to  have  quarrelled 

like  that, — especially  at  bedtime. 
JANET.     (Simply?)     Quarrelled? 
CARVE.     Well,  didn't  we? 
JANET.     /  didn't     I    agreed   with   everything 

you  said. 


ACT   III.   SCENE   2          113 

CARVE.  What  did  you  agree  with?  I  should 
like  to  know. 

JANET.  You  said  I  didn't  really  believe  after 
all  that  you  are  Ham  Carve,  and  1  assured 
you  in  the  most  soothing  manner  that  I  did 
believe  you  are  Ham  Carve  ! 

CARVE.  And  do  you  call  that  agreeing  with 
me?  I  know  perfectly  well  from  your  tone 
that  in  spite  of  all  my  explanations  and  re- 
iterations during  the  last  three  months  you 
don't  believe  I'm  Ham  Carve.  You  only  say 
you  do  in  order  to  soothe  me.  I  hate  being 
soothed.  You're  as  convinced  as  ever  that 
Ebag  is  a  rascal,  and  that  I've  got  a  bee  in  my 
bonnet. 

JANET.     But  what  does  it  matter  ? 

CARVE.     (Cold  and  hard?)     Well,  I  like  that ! 

JANET.  (  Weeping?)  It's  not  my  fault  if  I  don't 
believe  you're  Ilam  Carve.  I  would  if  I  could, 
but  I  can't !  You're  very  cruel. 

CARVE.  (Jumping  up  and  embracing  her?}  Hush, 
hush  !  There  !  (Cajolingly?)  Who's  being  an 
infant  now? 

JANET.     I  don't  pretend  to  understand  this  art. 

CARVE.  I  hope  you  never  will.  One  of  the 
chief  charms  of  existence  in  your  wigwam, 
my  child,  is  that  I  never  hear  any  confounded 
chatter  about  art.  Now — are  we  pals  ? 

JANET.     (Smiling  reconciliation)     Darling,  do 
turn  the  gas  up. 
8 


114     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CARVE.     (Obeying,  struck  by  her  attired)     Why 

— what  are  you  dressed  like  that  for  ? 
JANET.     I  was  thinking  of  going  away. 

(Exit,  L.) 

(She  re-enters  immediately  with  kettle  and 
puts  it  on  fire?) 

CARVE.    Going  away? 

JANET.  (Smiling?)  Now  do  listen,  darling. 
Let's  go  away.  We  can't  stop  here.  This 
Ebag  case  is  getting  more  and  more  on  your 
nerves,  and  on  mine  too.  I'm  sure  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  us.  What  it'll  be  next 
#eek  when  the  trial  comes  on,  I  don't  know 
— upon  my  soul  I  don't.  It's  all  very  well  for 
you  to  refuse  to  see  callers  and  never  go  out. 
But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing — we  shall  have 
those  newspaper  people  on  the  roof  in  a  day 
or  two,  and  looking  down  the  chimney  to  see 
how  I  lay  the  fire.  Lawyers  are  nothing  to 
them.  Do  you  know — no  you  don't,  because 
I  didn't  want  you  to  be  upset — last  night's 
milk  was  brought  by  a  journalist — with  a 
camera.  They're  beginning  to  bribe  the 
tradesmen.  I  tremble  to  think  what  will  be 
in  this  morning's  papers. 

CARVE.  (Trying  to  make  light  of  tf.~)  Oh,  no- 
thing will  upset  me  now.  But  you  might  let 
me  know  at  once  if  the  editor  of  the  Spectator 
calls  round  with  the  bread. 


ACT   III.   SCENE   2          115 

JANET.  And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing.  That 
Mr.  Horning — you  know  the  breathless  man 
on  the  Evening  Courier  that  came  to  the 
Grand  Babylon — he's  taken  lodgings  opposite 
— arrived  last  night. 

CARVE.  Oh,  for  a  machine  gun — one  simple 
little  machine  gun ! 

(Exit  JANET,  L.) 

She  immediately  returns  with  a  tray  con- 
taining bread>  etc.,  and  a  toasting-fork. 

JANET.     So  I  thought  if  we  just  vanished 

CARVE.     It's  too  late — I've  had  the  subpoena. 

If  I  hooked  it,  everybody  would   say  I  was 

an  adventurer. 

JANET.    We  could  come  back  for  the  trial. 
CARVE.    We  should  be  followed. 
JANET.    Not  if  we  start  now. 
CARVE.    Now  ? 
JANET.    Yes,  now\    The  back   door.     Before 

it  gets  light. 
CARVE.     Creep  away  in   the  dark!     No!     I'll 

go  through  with  the  thing. 
JANET.    Well,  I  shall  travel  alone,  then.     Here's 

my  bunch  of  keys.     I'll  just  explain  to  you 

where  everything  is.     I  daresay  Mrs.  Simpson 

will  come  in  and  clean  up.    She's  not  bad, 

as  charwomen  go. 
CARVE.    Jane ! 


116     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.    Well ! 

CARVE.      You're    taking   an   unfair   advantage 

of  me. 
JANET.     (Putting  tea  leaves  in  teapot?}     What 

if  I  am  ? 
CARVE.     You're  only  a  woman  after  all.  .  .  . 

And  I'd  thought  so  highly  of  you  ! 
JANET.     (Sweetly?)     Then  you'll  come.     Better 

brush  yourself  up  first. 
CARVE.    What  time  is  it  ? 
JANET.     (Looking  at  clock?)     Seven  o'clock. 
CARVE.     Where  do    you    mean    to    drag    me 

to? 
JANET.      Well,  what   about  this   Continent  of 

yours  that  I've  heard  so  much  of? 
CARVE.     There's  a  train  from  Victoria  at  8.30. 
JANET.     Very  well  then.     We'll   have  another 

breakfast  at  Victoria. 
CARVE.  And  the  cab  ? 
JANET.  There  isn't  going  to  be  any  cab — nor 

luggage — rousing  the  whole  street !     (CARVE 

goes  to  window?)     For  goodness'  sake  don't 

draw   those  curtains  —  with   the   gas   flaring 

up! 

CARVE.    Why  not  ? 
JANET.      (Conspiratorial?)      Supposing    there's 

some  journalist  on  the  watch  outside ! 
CARVE.     I  wanted  to  look  at  the  weather. 
JANET.     Well,  go  to  the  front  door,  and  mind 

you  open  it  quietly. 


ACT   III.   SCENE   2          117 

(Exit  CARVE,  R.) 

(J ANET  pours  water  on  tea.} 

(Exit,  L.) 

(Re-enter  CARVE  quickly?) 

CARVE.  I  say,  here's  a  curate  pushed  himself 
in  at  the  front  door ! 

(Re-enter  JANET,  L.) 

JANET.     No,  he's  come  in  at  the  back. 
CARVE.     But  I  tell  you  he's  here  \ 

(Enter  JAMES   SHAWN,  L.      Then  enter 
JOHN  SHAWN,  R.    Paused] 

JAMES.      Now   let    me    entreat    everybody   to 

remain  perfectly  calm. 
JANET.     Oh,  don't  worry  about  that.     Nothing 

startles    us    now.      A   few   curates   more  or 

less.  .  .  . 
CARVE.     (Sinking  into  chair.}     I   suppose  this 

is  the  very  newest  journalism.     Would  you 

mind  me  asking  a  question  ? 
JAMES.    What  is  it? 

(JANET  makes  the  tea} 

CARVE.  Why  did  you  wait  till  the  door  was 
opened  ?  Seems  a  pity  to  stand  on  ceremony. 
Why  not  have  broken  a  window  or  so  and 
climbed  right  in  ? 

JAMES.    John,  is  mother  there  ? 


118     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JOHN.  (At  door,  R.)  Mother,  how  often  shall 
I  have  to  ask  you  to  keep  close  to  me  ? 

(Enter  MRS.  SHAWN,  R.) 

MRS.  S.     I'm  all  of  a  tremble. 

JOHN.  (Firmly?)  Come  now,  you  mustn't  give 
way.  This  is  he  (pointing"  to  CARVE).  Do 
you  recognise  him  as  our  father?  (JANET, 
who  is  cutting  a  slice  of  bread,  stops  and  looks 
from  one  to  the  other?) 

MRS.  S.  (To  CARVE.)  Albert,  don't  you  know 
me?  To  think  that  next  Tuesday  it'll  be 
six  and  twenty  years  since  you  walked  out 

o'  the  house  casual  like  and — and (Stops 

from  emotion?) 

CARVE.  Go  on.  Go  on.  ...  To  think  that  I 
was  once  shy ! 

JANET.  (To  MRS.  SHAWN.)  Here,  you'd  better 
come  and  sit  a  bit  nearer  the  fire.  (Very 
kindly?}  Come  along  now ! 

MRS.  S.     (Obeying?)     Thank  you,  m'm. 

JANET.  (To  JOHN.)  And  which  of  you  boys 
was  it  that  had  the  idea  of  keeping  a  middle- 
aged  woman  perishing  on  a  doorstep  before 
daylight  in  February? 

JOHN.     How  else  could  we 

JAMES.     (Interrupting  him?)     Excuse  me,  John. 

JOHN.     (Subsiding?)    I  beg  your  pardon,  James. 

JAMES.  (To  JANET.)  All  questions  should  be 
addressed  to  me.  My  brother  John  is  here 


ACT   III.    SCENE   2          119 

solely  to  take  charge   of  our   mother.     We 

have  done  our  best,  by  careful  forethought,  to 

ensure  that  this  painful  interview  shall  be  as 

brief  and  as  dignified  as  possible. 
JANET.     And  couldn't  you  think  of  anything 

cleverer  than  to  give  your  poor  mother  her 

death  of  cold  for  a  start  ? 
JAMES.     How  else  could  we  have  arranged  it  ? 

I  myself  rang  at  your  door  for  a  quarter  of  an 

hour  yesterday  afternoon 
JANET.     We  never  heard  you. 
JAMES.     Strange ! 
JANET.     No,   it    isn't.     We  took   the  bell   off 

three  days  ago. 
JAMES.     I  was  told  that  it  was  impossible  to 

effect    an    entrance    in    the    ordinary    way. 

Hence,  we  had  to  use  craft.     I  argued  that 

food  must  come  into  the  house,  and  that  it 

probably  came  in  early. 
JANET.     Well,   it's    a    good   thing   for    you    I 

happened   to   hear   the  cat  mewing,  or   you 

might  have  had  another  couple  of  hours  in 

my  back  yard.     You're  the  eldest,  I  suppose. 
JAMES.     We  are  twins. 
JANET.     Really ! 
CARVE.     As  you  say — really ! 
JAMES.     I    am    the1    older,   but    the    difference 

between  us  is  not  considerable. 
JOHN.     Now,  mother,  please  don't  cry. 
JANET.     (Having  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea,  holds 


120     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

it  before  MRS.  SHAWN.)  Sugar?  (MRS. 
SllAWN  signifies  an  affirmative — JANET  drops 
sugar  into  cup>  which  MRS.  SHAWN  takes?) 
You'll  drink  it  easier  if  you  lift  your 
veil. 

JAMES.  Now,  mother — you  are  sure  you  recog- 
nise this  gentleman  ? 

MRS.  S.  (Not  very  positively?)  Yes — yes.  It's 
a  rare  long  while  .  .  . 

JAMES.     He  is  your  husband  and  our  father? 

MRS.  S.  (More  positively.}  Yes.  And  sorry 
I  am  to  say  it.  (JANET  eyes  her  carefully?) 

JAMES.  I  think  that  suffices.  (To  JANET.) 
Madam,  you  are  in  a  most  unfortunate 
position.  You  supposed  yourself  to  be  a 
married  woman,  whereas  you  are  nothing  of 
the  kind.  I  needn't  say  that  as  the  victim  of 
a  heartless  bigamist  you  have  our  deepest  .  .  . 

JANET.  (Handing  him  a  slice  of  bread  on  toast- 
ing-fork?) Just  toast  this  for  your  mother, 
will  you,  and  mind  the  bars.  I'll  get  another 
cup  or  two.  (Goes  to  sideboard  and  gets 
crockery?) 

CARVE.  And  so  these  are  my  two  sons !  They 
show  little  emotion  in  beholding  the  author 
of  their  being  for  the  first  time.  As  for  me, 
I  hardly  recognise  them. 

MRS.  S.  And  is  it  likely,  seeing  they  were 
born  six  months  after  you  deserted  me, 
Albert  ? 


ACT   III.   SCENE   2          121 

CARVE.  I  see.  If  it  isn't  indiscreet,  am  I  a 
grandfather  ? 

JAMES.     (Toasting?)    No,  sir. 

CARVE.  I  only  wanted  to  know  the  worst 
Silly  joke  about  the  fertility  of  curates — 
you've  met  with  it,  no  doubt ! 

JAMES.    Your  tone  is  simply  lamentable,  sir. 

JANET.  (To  JAMES.)  Mind  !  You  can  do  the 
other  side.  Now,  take  care;  the  fire's  very 
hot.  (In  the  same  mild  tone  to  MRS.  SHAWN.) 
Twenty-six  years,  you  say  ? 

MRS.  S.  Yes.  Albert  was  twenty-two  then, 
weren't  you,  Albert  ? 

CARVE.    Undoubtedly. 

JANET.  And  how  did  you  come  to  find  us  out 
at  last  ? 

MRS.  S.  It  was  through  an  advertisement  put 
in  the  paper  by  that  Mr.  Texel — him  that's  in 
this  law  case — offering  a  reward  for  informa- 
tion about  a  Mr.  Albert  Shawn  who'd  been 
valet  to  that  artist  man  that  died. 

JANET.  Oh !  So  Mr.  Texel  has  been  advertis- 
ing, has  he  ?  (Giving  a  cup  of  tea  to  JOHN 
SHAWN.) 

MRS.  S.  Yes,  for  anybody  that  knew  Albert 
Shawn  when  he  was  young.  "  Albert  Shawn," 
I  says,  "that's  my  husband's  name."  I'd 
been  told  he'd  gone  off  in  service  with  a 
painter  or  something  of  that  kind.  I  married 
him  as  a  valet. 


122     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.     (Pouring  out  tea?)     A  valet? 

MRS.  S.  A  valet,  ma'am.  .  .  And  the 
struggle  I've  had  to  bring  up  my  children. 
(  Whimpering?) 

JAMES.     Now,  mother ! 

JANET.  {Stopping  JAMES.)  That  will  do  now ! 
Give  it  me.  (Taking  toast  and  fork?)  Here's 
some  tea.  Now  don't  pretend  you've  never 
seen  a  cup  of  tea  before — you  a  curate ! 

(JAMES  accepts  tea.) 

MRS.  S.  Yes,  they  would  go  into  the  church, 
both  of  them !  I  don't  know  how  we've 
managed  it,  but  managed  it  we  have,  surplices 
and  all.  And  very  happy  they  were,  I'm 
sure.  And  now  there's  this  dreadful  scandal. 
Oh,  Albert,  you  might  at  least  have  changed 

your  name!  I — I (Partially  breaks 

down?) 

JOHN.  Mother,  I  beg (MRS.  SHAWN 

breaks  down  entirely?)  Mother,  I  absolutely 
insist.  You  know  you  promised  not  to 
speak  at  all  except  in  answer  to  questions. 

JAMES.  I  think,  mother,  you  really  might 
try 

JOHN.     Leave  her  to  me!     Now,  mother! 

(Loud  double  knock  off?) 

JANET.  (To  JOHN  SHAWN.)  There's  the  post ! 
Just  go  and  bring  me  the  letters  in,  will  you? 


ACT   III.    SCENE   2  123 

(JOHN  hesitates?)  You'll  find  them  scattered 
about  the  floor  in  the  hall.  Don't  miss 
any. 

(Exit  JOHN  SHAWN,  R.) 
(MRS.  SHAWN  recovers?} 

JAMES.      And   what   do    you    propose   to   do 

madam  ? 
JANET.     (  Who  has  been  soothing  MRS.  SHAWN.) 

Me  ?     What  about  ? 
JAMES.     About  this — this  bigamy. 
JANET.     Oh,  nothing.     What  are  you  thinking 

of  doing? 

(Re-enter  JOHN  SHAWN  with  post,  which 
CARVE  takes  and  begins  to  read?} 

JAMES.  Well,  I  suppose  you're  aware  that 
bigamy  is  a  criminal  offence  ? 

JANET.  There's  a  police-station  in  the  Upper 
Richmond  Road.  Better  call  there.  It'll  be 
so  nice  for  you  two,  when  you're  flourishing 
about  in  the  pulpit,  to  think  of  your  father  in 
prison — won't  it  now  ? 

JAMES.  We,  of  course,  should  not  prosecute. 
If  you  are  prepared  to  go  on  living  with 
this  gentleman  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened  

JANET.    Oh,  I  don't  mind. 

JAMES.     Well,  then,  I  doubt  if  we  should  inter- 


124     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

fere.     But  Mr.  Texel's  lawyers  are  already  in 
communication  with  the  police. 

JANET.  (Stiffly?)  I  see.  (An  awkward  pause 
during  which  everybody  except  CARVE,  who 
is  reading  his  post,  looks  at  everybody  else?} 
Well,  then,  I  think  that's  about  all,  isn't  it  ? 
(A  shorter  pause?}  Good-morning.  (She 
bows  to  the  curates,  and  shakes  hands  with 
MRS.  SHAWN.)  (To  MRS.  SHAWN.)  Now 
do  take  care  of  yourself. 

MRS.  S.     ( Weakly?)     Thank  you. 

JOHN.  Good-morning.  Mother,  take  my  arm, 
please. 

JAMES.     Good-morning. 

JANET.     Albert,  they're  going. 

CARVE.  ( Looking  up  absently  and  only  half 
rising,  perfunctorily  and  quickly?}  Good- 
morning.  Good-morning.  (Sits  down?} 

JANET.  (To  JAMES  SHAWN,  who  is  hovering 
near  door  L,  uncertain  of  his  way  out?}  This 
way,  this  time ! 

(Exeunt  the  SHAWNS  followed  by  JANET.) 

(CARVE    rises    and    draws    curtains    of 
window  apart?) 

(Re-enter  JANET.) 

JANET.  (Cheerfully?)  Oh,  it's  quite  light! 
(Turns  out  gas?} 


ACT    III.    SCENE    2  125 

CARVE.  (Gazing  at  her?)  Incomparable 
woman ! 

JANET.    So  it's  true  after  all ! 

CARVE.    What? 

JANET.  All  that  rigmarole  about  you  being 
Ham  Carve? 

CARVE.  You're  beginning  to  come  round  at 
last? 

JANET.  Well,  I  think  they  were  quite  honest 
people — those  three.  There's  no  doubt  the 
poor  creature  once  had  a  husband  who  did 
run  off.  And  it  seems  fairly  clear  his  name 
was  Albert  Shawn,  and  he  went  away  as 
valet  to  an  artist.  But  then,  on  the  other 
hand,  if  there  is  one  thing  certain  in  this 
world,  it  is  that  you  were  never  married 
before  you  married  me.  That  I  will  swear 
to. 

CARVE.  And  yet  she  identified  me.  She  was 
positive. 

JANET.  Positive?  That's  just  what  she  wasn't ! 
And  didn't  you  notice  the  queer  way  she 
looked  at  you  as  they  went  out  ?  As  much 
as  to  say,  "  I  wonder  now  whether  it  is  him 
—after  all?" 

CARVE.  Then  you  really  think  she  could  be 
mistaken  on  such  a  point  ? 

JANET.  Pooh !  After  twenty-six  years.  Be- 
sides, all  men  of  forty-seven  look  more  or  less 
alike.  .  .  And  so  I'm  the  wife  of  Ham  Carve 


126     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

that's  supposed  to  be  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey  and  royalty  went  to  his  funeral !  We'll 
have  some  tea  ourselves.  I  say,  why  did  you 
do  it  ?  (Pours  out  tea.} 

CARVE.  (Casually.}  I  don't  know.  It  was  to 
save  worry  to  begin  with,  and  then  it  went  on 
by  itself  and  somehow  I  couldn't  stop  it.  .  .  I 
don't  know ! 

JANET.  (Endearingly}  Well,  I've  always  told 
you  frankly  you've  got  a  bee  in  your 
bonnet.  (Drinking  tea  and  turning  over  the 
post}  More  letters  from  these  newspaper 
people!  What's  this  lovely  crest  on  this 
envelope  ? 

CARVE.  It's  from  Lord  Leonard  Alcar.  He 
says  if  we'll  go  up  and  see  him  to-morrow 
afternoon  he'll  be  very  much  obliged  indeed, 
and  he  may  be  able  to  be  of  assistance 
to  us. 

JANET.  (Deeply  impressed.}  Lord  Leonard 
Al  .  .  .  Where's  the  letter  ?  (Searches  for  it 
hurriedly.  As  she  reads  it.}  Well  I  never! 
(Reading}  "  And  Mrs.  Shawn."  I've  got  noth- 
ing to  go  in. 

CARVE.    Oh,  I  shan't  go ! 

JANET.    Why  not? 

CARVE.  Well,  what  about  this  trip  to  the 
Continent  ? 

JANET.  Continent  fiddlesticks.  I've  never  been 
asked  to  go  and  see  a  Lord  before.  .  . 


ACT   III.    SCENE   2          127 

CARVE.     Now  listen,  Jane.     What  earthly  good 

can  it  do  ?     I  shan't  go. 
JANET.     I  shall.     So  there !     Six  Dukes  in  the 

family  1     I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  anything. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV 

SCENE   I 

LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR'S  study,  Grosvenor 
Gardens.  Door,  back  centre.  Door,  L. 
JANET'S  portrait  is  conspicuous  on  a  wall. 

TIME. — The  next  afternoon. 

LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR  and  MR.  TEXEL 
are  coming  into  the  room  from  door  at 
back. 

ALCAR.     You  still  go  on  collecting,  Mr.  Texel  ? 

TEXEL.  (Uncertain  of  his  steps?)  Well,  yes. 
I've  been  amusing  myself  with  pictures  for 
pretty  nigh  forty  years.  Why  should  I 
deprive  myself  of  this  pleasure  merely  because 
my  eyesight's  gone? 

ALCAR.  Why,  indeed !  You  have  the  true 
collecting  spirit.  Permit  me  (directs  TexeFs 
hand  to  chair). 

TEXEL.  Thanks,  I'm  on  to  it.  (Sitting  down?) 
My  sight's  going  steadily  worse,  but  there  are 
still  a  few  things  that  I  can  make  out  pretty 
clearly,  Lord  Leonard.  Motor  omnibuses, 
cathedrals,  English  easy-chairs.  .  .  . 


sat 


ACT   IV.   SCENE   1  129 

ALCAR.  Well,  I'm  charmed  to  find  you  in  such 
good  spirits,  and  really  I  feel  very  grateful  to 
you  for  accepting  my  invitation. 

TEXEL.  Delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
sir.  Two  old  collectors  like  us — rivals  at 
Christie's.  I  wonder  how  many  times  I've 
cabled  over  instructions  to  my  agent  to  smash 
you  at  any  cost  Delighted  to  meet  you, 
Lord  Leonard. 

ALCAR.  We  ought  to  have  met  earlier,  Mr. 
Texel.  Now  I've  got  you  here,  I  must  tell 
you  I've  ventured  to  invite  one  or  two — er — 
kindred  spirits  to  meet  you. 

(Enter  SERVANT.) 
SERVANT.    Mr.  Ebag. 

(Enter  EBAG.) 
(Exit  SERVANT). 

ALCAR.    How  d'you  do,  Ebag  ? 

EBAG.    My  lord. 

ALCAR.  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Texel. 
Mr.  Texel,  this  is  Mr.  Ebag. 

TEXEL.  (Surprised — aside  to  LORD  LEONARD 
ALCAR.)  This  one  of  your  kindred  spirits  ? 

EBAG.     (Also  surprised.}     Mr.  Texel ! 

TEXEL.   (Holding-  out  kis  hand  towards  EBAG,  who 

takes  it.}     Well,  Mr.  Ebag,  I've  made  a  special 

journey  to  Europe  to  get  a  verdict  from  an 

English  court  that  you've  done   me  up  for 

9 


130     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

about  thirty  thousand  dollars,  and  if  I  get  it 
I'll  do  my  level  best  afterwards  to  see  you 
safe  into  prison  ;  but  in  the  meantime  I'm 
very  glad  to  meet  you.  I  feel  sure  you're  one 
of  the  right  sort,  whatever  you  are. 
EBAG.  You  flatter  me,  Mr.  Texel.  The  glad- 
ness is  mutual. 

(Enter  SERVANT.) 
SERVANT.    Mr.  Cyrus  Carve.    Mr.  and  Mrs.  X. 

(Enter  ]ANET.     She  hesitates  in  doorway.    LORD 
LEONARD  ALCAR  goes  to  meet  her.} 

JANET.    You  Lord  Alcar  ? 

ALCAR.     I  am  Lord  Leonard  Alcar? 

JANET.     My    mistake !     (They    shake    hands'} 

But  why  does  this  young  man  call  me  Mrs. 

X.     I  told  him  Carve,  plain  enough. 
ALCAR.     Did    he?     A    slip — a    slip!    You've 

brought  your  husband  ? 
JANET.     Yes,  but  not  so  easily  as  all  that.     I'm 

afraid   he's   quarrelling    out  there   with    Mr. 

Cyrus  Carve.     They  get  across  one  another 

on  the  stairs. 
ALCAR.     Tut-tut.     Excuse  me  one  moment 

(Exit  hurriedly} 
(Exit  SERVANT.) 

JANET.     Mr.     Ebag!     So    you're    here    too! 
Why,  it's  a  family  party. 


ACT   IV.   SCENE   1  131 

EBAG.  (Astounded?)  How  do  you  do,  Mrs. 
Shawn  ?  I  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Carve. 

JANET.  It  seems  I'm  Mrs.  X  now — didn't  you 
hear? 

EBAG.  I  expect  the  servant  had  received  in- 
structions. His  lordship  has  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  wit,  you  know. 

JANET.  (Looking  round?)  And  what's  this 
room  supposed  to  be  ? 

EBAG.     Oh,  the  study,  probably. 

JANET.  Really!  Not  what  you'd  call  'homely,' 
is  it  ?  Rather  like  being  on  the  stage. 

(Enter  LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR,  leading  CARVE 
on  his  right  and  CYRUS  on  his  left.  Servant 
closes  door  from  without?) 

ALCAR.  Now  we're  all  safely  here,  and  I  fancy 
there  will  be  enough  easy-chairs  to  go  round. 
Mr.  Texel,  you  already  know  Mr.  Cyrus 
Carve,  and  you  will  be  pleased  to  meet  the 
talented  artist  who  painted  the  pictures  which 
you  have  been  buying  from  Mr.  Ebag.  He 
has  most  kindly  consented  to  be  called  Mr. 
X  for  the  moment.  This  is  Mrs.  X,  Mr. 
Texel. 

(They  bow — CYRUS  shakes  hands  with  TEXEL.) 

EBAG.    (To  CYRUS.)    How  d'you  do? 
CYRUS.     How  d'you  do? 
CARVE.    How  d'you  do  ? 


132     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

ALCAR.     (Observing  that  these  three  are  already 

acquainted?}     Good  !     Excellent !     Now,  Mrs. 

— er — X,  will   you   have  this   chair  near  the 

fire  ?     (Fixes  chair  for  her.} 
TEXEL.     (Indicating  JANET,    aside    to   EBAG.) 

Good  looking  ? 
EBAG.    (Aside  to  TEXEL.)    Very  agreeable  little 

thing ! 

TEXEL.     Excellent!  Excellent! 
ALCAR.     (Interrupting-  a  gesture  from  CARVE.) 

You  have    all   done   me   a   signal  favour  by 

coming  here.     In  thanking  you,  I  wonder  if  I 

may  ask  another  favour.     May  I  ? 
TEXEL.     Certainly.     Among  kindred  spirits. 
EBAG.     Assuredly,  my  lord. 
ALCAR.     I  would  merely  request  you  to  control 

so   far   as   possible   any  expression   of  your 

astonishment  at   meeting   one   another  here. 

That  is  to  say,  any  violent  expression. 
CARVE.     (Gaily  and  carelessly?}     Oh,  very  well  i 

Very  well ! 

(LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR  waves  the  rest  of 
the  company  into  chairs,  tactfully  separat- 
ing CYRUS  and  CARVE  as  much  as 
possible.  He  remains  standing  himself?) 

JANET.  I  suppose  what  you  really  want  is  to 
stop  this  funny  trial  from  coming  on. 

ALCAR.  (Slightly  taken  aback?)  Mrs.  X,  I  con- 
gratulate myself  on  your  presence  here.  Yes, 


ACT   IV.    SCENE   1  133 

my  ambition  is  to  be  peacemaker.  Of  course 
a  peacemaker  always  runs  the  risk  of  a  broken 
head,  but  I  shall  entrust  my  head  to  your 
good  nature.  As  a  proof  that  I  really  mean 
business,  I  need  only  point  out  that  I  haven't 
invited  a  single  lawyer. 

EBAG.  (After  slight  pause?)  This  is  exceed- 
ingly good  of  your  lordship. 

TEXEL.  For  myself  I'm  rather  looking  forward 
to  next  week.  I've  spared  no  expense  to  get 
up  a  first-class  show.  Half  the  papers  in  New 
York  and  Chicago  are  sending  over  special 
correspondents.  I've  even  secured  your 
champion  humorous  judge ;  and  altogether 
I  reckon  this  trial  will  be  about  the  greatest 
judicial  proposition  the  British  public's  seen 
in  years.  Still,  I'm  always  ready  to  oblige — 
and  I'll  shake  hands  right  now,  on  terms — 
my  terms. 

ALCAR.    We  are  making  progress. 

TEXEL.  But  what  I  don't  understand  is — 
where  you  come  in,  Lord  Leonard. 

ALCAR.    Where  I  come  in  ? 

TEXEL.  Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  personal, 
but  is  this  Hague  Conference  merely  your 
hobby,  or  are  you  standing  in  with  some- 
body? 

ALCAR.  I  quite  appreciate  your  delicacy.  Let 
me  assure  you  that,  though  it  gives  me  the 
greatest  pleasure  to  see  you  all,  I  have  not 


134     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

selected  you  as  the  victims  of  a  hobby.  Nor 
have  I  anything  whatever  to  gain  by  stopping 
the  trial.  The  reverse.  At  the  trial  I  should 
probably  have  a  seat  on  the  bench  next  to  a 
delightful  actress,  and  I  should  enjoy  the 
case  very  much  indeed.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  even  now  the  learned  judge  is  strenu- 
ously preparing  his  inimitable  flashes  of 
humour,  and  that,  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
I  should  allow  myself  to  be  convulsed  by 
them  I  like  to  think  of  four  K.C.'s  toiling 
hard  for  a  miserable  hundred  guineas  a  day 
each.  I  like  to  think  of  the  solicitors,  good, 
honest  fellows,  striving  their  best  to  keep  the 
costs  as  low  as  possible.  I  even  like  to  think 
of  the  jury  with  their  powerful  intellects  who, 
when  we  are  dead  and  gone,  Mr.  Texel,  will 
tell  their  grandchildren  proudly  how  they 
decided  the  famous  case  of  Texel  v.  Ebag. 
Above  all,  I  like  to  think  of  the  witnesses 
revelling  in  their  cross-examination.  Nobody 
will  be  more  sorry  than  I  to  miss  this  grand 
spectacle  of  the  greatest  possible  number  of 
the  greatest  possible  brains  employed  for  the 
greatest  possible  length  of  time  in  settling  a 
question  that  an  average  grocer's  assistant 
could  settle  in  five  minutes.  I  am  human. 
But,  I  have  been  approached — I  have  been 
flattered  by  the  suggestion — that  I  might 
persuade  you  two  gentlemen  to  abandon  the 


ACT   IV.   SCENE   1  135 

trial,  and  I  may  whisper  to  you  that  the 
abandonment  of  the  trial  would  afford  satis- 
faction in — er — influential  quarters. 

TEXEL.  Then  are  we  up  against  the  British 
Government?  Well,  go  ahead. 

ALCAR.  (Protesting  with  a  very  courteous  air 
of  extreme  astonishment^)  My  dear  Mr. 
Texel,  how  can  I  have  been  so  clumsy  as  to 
convey  such  an  idea?  The  Government? 
Not  in  the  least — not  in  the  least.  On  behalf 
of  nobody  whatever.  (Confidentially^  I  am 
merely  in  a  position  to  inform  you  positively 
that  an  amicable  settlement  of  the  case  would 
be  viewed  with  satisfaction  in  influential 
quarters. 

JANET.  Well,  I  can  tell  you  it  would  be 
viewed  with  satisfaction  in  a  certain  street 
in  Putney.  But  influential  quarters — what's 
it  got  to  do  with  them  ? 

ALCAR.  I  shall  be  quite  frank  with  you.  The 
dignity  of  Westminster  Abbey  is  involved 
in  this  case,  and  nothing  in  all  England  is 
more  sacred  to  us  than  Westminster  Abbey. 
One  has  only  to  pronounce  the  word  "the 
Abbey" — to  realize  that.  We  know  what  a 
modern  trial  is;  we  know  what  the  modern 
press  is;  and,  unhappily,  we  know  what  the 
modern  bench  is.  It  is  impossible  to  con- 
template with  equanimity  the  prospect  of 
Westminster  Abbey  and  its  solemnities  being 


136     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

given  up  to  the  tender  mercy  of  the  evening 
papers  and  a  joking  judge  surrounded  by 
millinery.  Such  an  exhibition  would  be  un- 
seemly. It  would  soil  our  national  existence. 
In  a  word,  it  would  have  a  bad  effect. 

CARVE.  {Meditatively — bland,}  How  English! 
(He  gets  up  and  walks  unobtrusively  about  the 
room,  examining  the  pictures?) 

ALCAR.  Undoubtedly.  But  this  is  England. 
It  is  perhaps  a  disadvantage  that  we  are  not 
in  Russia  nor  in  Prussia.  But  we  must  make 
the  best  of  our  miserable  country.  (In  a  new 
tone,  showing  the  orator  skilled  in  changes  of 
voiced)  Can't  we  discuss  our  little  affair  in  a 
friendly  way  entirely  without  prejudice?  We 
are  together  here,  among  gentlemen 

JANET.     I'm  afraid  you're  forgetting  me. 

ALCAR.  (Recovering  himself?)  Madam,  I  am 
convinced  that  none  of  us  can  be  more 
gentlemanly  than  yourself.  .  .  .  Can  we  not 
find  a  way  of  settlement?  (With  luxurious 
enjoyment  of  the  idea?)  Imagine  the  fury  of 
all  those  lawyers  and  journalists  when  they 
learn  that  we — er — if  I  may  so  express  it — 
have  done  them  in  the  eye! 

TEXEL.  If  I  wasn't  going  to  come  out  on  top, 
I  could  understand  you  worrying  about  your 
old  Abbey.  But  I'm  taking  the  part  of  your 
Abbey.  When  I  win  /'/  wins,  and  I'm  certain 
to  win. 


ACT   IV.   SCENE   1  137 

ALCAR.     I  do  not  doubt 

EBAG.     (  With  suave  assurance.}     But  I  do. 

ALCAR.  (Continuing}  I  do  not  doubt  your 
conviction,  Mr.  Texel.  It  merely  proves  that 
you  have  never  seen  a  British  Jury  exercising 
itself  upon  a  question  relating  to  the  fine 
arts.  If  you  had  you  would  not  be  certain, 
for  you  would  know  that  twelve  tradesmen  so 
occupied  are  capable  of  accomplishing  the 
most  incredible  marvels.  Supposing  you 
don't  win — supposing  Mr.  Ebag  wins 

EBAG.     As  I  assuredly  shall. 

ALCAR.  Then  we  should  have  the  whole 
world  saying,  "  Well,  they  haven't  given  a 
national  funeral  to  a  really  great  artist 
for  about  a  century,  and  when  at  last  they  do 
try  they  only  succeed  in  burying  a  valet." 

CARVE.  (Looking  round  casually.}  England  all 
over! 

ALCAR.  The  effect  would  be  lamentable — 
utterly  lamentable.  You  will  realize  that  in 
influential  quarters 

TEXEL.  But  do  you  reckon  this  policy  of 
hushing  up  things  ever  does  any  good  ? 

ALCAR.  My  dear  sir,  it  is  the  corner-stone  of 
England's  greatness.  It  is  the  policy  that 
has  made  her  what  she  is ! 

CARVE.  (Looking  round  again}  True!  What 
she  is\ 

ALCAR.     (Turning  sharply  to    CARVE    behind 


138     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

him?)     Mr.   X,   your   interest   in   my  picture 

flatters  me  immensely 

CARVE.    {Interrupting  kirn?)    I  see  you've  bought 

my  latest  portrait  of  my  wife. 
ALCAR.    Yes. 
JANET.     (Starting    up.}     What's    that?     (She 

goes  to  inspect  picture} 
CARVE.     I  suppose  it  would   be  abusing  your 

hospitality  to  inquire  how  much  you  paid  our 

excellent  dealer  for  it  ? 
ALCAR.     Not  in  the  least.    But  the  fact  is  we 

haven't   yet    settled   the    price.     The    exact 

price  is  to  depend    on    the    result    of    our 

gathering. 
JANET.     Well,  if  anybody  had  told  me  I  should 

find   my  own    portrait — cooking-sleeves   and 

all 

(Inarticulate — she  returns  to  her  chair} 

ALCAR.  And  now  that  we  have  got  so  far, 
Mr.  X,  I  should  like  to  centralize  the  atten- 
tion of  this  quite  friendly  gathering  on 
yourself. 

CARVE.  (Approaching  airily}  Really !  (He 
sits} 

ALCAR.  There  are  several  questions  we  might 
discuss.  For  example,  we  might  argue  the 
artistic  value  of  the  pictures  admittedly  the 
work  of  Mr.  X.  That  would  probably  occupy 
us  for  about  ten  years.  Or  we  might  ask 


ACT    IV.    SCENE   1  139 

ourselves  how  it  happened  that  that  exceed- 
ingly astute  dealer,  Mr.  Ebag,  came  to  sell  as 
a  genuine  Ham  Carve,  without  offering  any 
explanation,  a  picture  which,  on  the  face  of  it, 
was  painted  some  time  after  that  great 
painter  had  received  a  national  funeral  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 

EBAG.     Sheer  carelessness,  my  lord. 

ALCAR.  Or  we  might  ask  ourselves  why  a 
valet  should  try  to  pass  himself  off  as  a 
world-renowned  artist.  Or,  on  the  other 
hand,  why  a  world-renowned  artist  should 
pass  himself  off  as  a  valet. 

CARVE.     Sheer  carelessness,  my  lord. 

ALCAR.  But  these  details  of  psychology  are 
beside  the  main  point.  And  the  main  point 
is  (to  CARVE) — Are  you  Ham  Carve  or  are 
you  Albert  Shawn  ?  (To  the  others?)  Surely 
with  a  little  goodwill  and  unembarrassed  by 
the  assistance  of  experts,  lawyers,  and  wigs 
generally,  we  can  settle  that !  And  once  it  is 
settled  the  need  for  a  trial  ceases.  (CARVE 
assumes  an  elaborately  uninterested  air.)  The 
main  point  does  not  seem  to  interest  you, 
Mr.  X. 

CARVE.  (Seeming  to  start.)  I  beg  your  pardon. 
No,  not  profoundly.  Why  should  it  ? 

ALCAR.     Yet  you  claim 

CARVE.  Excuse  me.  I  claim  nothing  except 
to  be  let  alone.  Certainly  I  do  not  ask  to  be 


140     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

accepted  as  Ham  Carve.  I  was  leading  a 
placid  and  agreeable  existence  in  a  place 
called  Putney,  an  ideal  existence  with  a  pearl 
among  women,  when  my  tranquillity  was  dis- 
turbed and  my  life  transformed  into  a  perfect 
nightmare  by  a  quarrel  between  a  retail  trades- 
man (indicating  EBAG)  and  a  wholesale  ink- 
dealer  (indicating  TEXEL)  about  one  of  my 
pictures.  It  does  not  concern  me.  My  rdle 
is  and  will  be  passive.  If  I  am  forced  into 
the  witness-box  I  shall  answer  questions  to 
the  worst  of  my  ability,  and  I  shall  do  no 
more.  I  am  not  cross.  I  am  not  sulking; 
but  I  consider  that  I  have  a  grievance.  If  I 
am  here,  it  is  solely  because  my  wife  does 
what  she  likes  with  me. 

TEXEL.     Bravo !     This  is  as  good  as  the  trial. 

ALCAR.  (Good-humouredly^}  Will  you  answer 
questions  here  ? 

CARVE.     (Good-humour'edly.}     It  depends. 

ALCAR.  Do  you  assert  that  you  are  Ham 
Carve  ? 

CARVE.     I  assert  nothing. 

ALCAR.     A  re  you  Ham  Carve? 

CARVE.    Yes,  but  I  don't  want  to  be. 

ALCAR.  Might  I  inquire  why  you  allowed 
your  servant  to  be  buried  in  your  name? 

CARVE.     Well,   he   always    did   everything  for 

me — a   most   useful   man.  .  .  .  But    I    didn't 

'  allow'  him  to  be  buriedin  my  name.    On  the 


ACT   IV.    SCENE   1  141 

contrary,  I  told  various  people  that  I  was 
not  dead — but  strange  to  say,  nobody  would 
believe  me.  My  handsome,  fascinating  cousin 
here  wouldn't  even  let  me  begin  to  tell  him. 
Even  my  wife  wouldn't  believe  me,  so  I  gave 
it  up. 

(TEXEL  does  not  conceal  his  enjoyment  of 
the  scene.) 

CYRUS.     (Grimly?)    Which  wife  ? 

(CARVE  twiddles  his  thumbs?) 

ALCAR.     But  do  you  mean 

TEXEL.  May  I  interrupt,  Lord  Leonard?  I 
could  listen  for  hours  to  this  absolutely 
stupendous  gentleman.  A  circus  is  nothing 
to  it.  But  aren't  we  jumping  the  track  ?  I've 
got  two  witnesses.  Mr.  Cyrus  Carve  will 
swear  that  your  Mr.  X  is  not  his  cousin. 
And  the  original  Mrs.  Albert  Shawn  will 
swear  that  he  is  her  husband.  That's  my 
case.  How  is  my  esteemed  opponent  going 
to  answer  it  ? 

EBAG.  In  the  first  place,  have  you  cross- 
examined  this  very  original  Mrs.  Albert 
Shawn  ? 

TEXEL.  Come.  You  don't  mean  to  argue 
that  a  woman  could  mistake  another  man 
for  her  own  husband — even  after  twenty-five 
years  or  so? 


142     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

EBAG.  (Smiling  apologetically  for  his  freedom?) 
According  to  the  divorce  reports,  they're 
constantly  doing  it  after  one  year,  to  say 
nothing  of  twenty-five. 

TEXEL.  (Appreciative?)  Good!  That's  good! 
Well,  I  may  tell  you  right  here  that  I  had  an 
interview  with  this  gentleman's  (indicating 
CARVE)  ecclesiastical  twins  only  yesterday 
afternoon,  and  they  assure  me  that  their 
mother  is  positive  on  the  point. 

JANET.     (Meditatively?)     Simpletons ! 

ALCAR.     I  beg  pardon. 

JANET.  I  daresay  they  preach  very  nicely,  but 
out  of  the  pulpit  they  don't  what  I  should 
call  shine,  poor  boys!  Anybody  could  see 
she  wasn't  positive.  Why,  it  wasn't  until  the 
old  lady  dropped  in  to  have  a  cup  of  tea 
with  us  that  I  felt  sure  my  husband's  name 
really  was  Carve. 

ALCAR.  Then  you  hadn't  credited  his  story 
before  ? 

JANET.  Well,  it  wanted  some  crediting,  didn't 
it? 

CYRUS.  (  With  intention?)  You  only  began  to 
credit  it  after  Mr.  Ebag  had  called  and  paid 
you  the  sum  of  £500  in  cash. 

JANET.  (After  a  slight  pause \  calmly?)  Oh! 
So  you  know  about  that,  do  you  ? 

CARVE.  (To  CYRUS,  genially?}  Cousin,  if  you 
continue  in  that  strain  I  shall  have  to  take 


ACT   IV.    SCENE   1  143 

you  out  on  to  the  doormat  and  assault 
you. 

EBAG.     I  should  like  to  say 

CYRUS.  (Interrupting  grimly^}  Lord  Leonard, 
isn't  it  time  that  this  ceased  ? 

TEXEL.  {Heartily  amused?)  But  why?  I'm 
enjoying  every  minute  of  it. 

ALCAR.  I  should  be  sorry  to  interfere  with 
Mr.  Texel's  amusement,  but  I  think  the 
moment  has  now  come  for  me  to  make  a 
disclosure.  When  I  was  approached  as  to 
this  affair  I  consulted  Mr.  Cyrus  Carve  first, 
he  being  the  sole  surviving  relative  of  his 
cousin.  That  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  natural 
and  proper  course  to  adopt.  Mr.  Cyrus 
Carve  gave  me  a  very  important  piece  of 
information,  and  it  is  solely  on  the  strength 
of  that  information  that  I  have  invited  you 
all  to  come  here  this  afternoon.  (He  looks  at 
CYRUS.) 

CYRUS.  (Clearing  his  throat,  to  EBAG  and 
CARVE.)  Of  course,  you'll  argue  that  after 
thirty-five  years  absence  it's  a  wise  man  that 
can  recognize  his  own  cousin.  I'm  absolutely 
convinced  in  my  own  mind  that  you  (scorn- 
fully to  CARVE)  are  not  my  cousin.  But 
then,  you'll  tell  me  that  men  have  been  hung 
before  now  on  the  strength  of  sworn  identifica- 
tion that  proved  afterwards  to  be  mistaken. 
I  admit  it  I  admit  that  in  theory  I  may  be 


144     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

wrong.  ( With  increased  grim  sarcasm?)  I 
admit  that  in  theory  the  original  Mrs.  Shawn 
may  be  wrong.  Everything's  possible,  especi- 
ally with  a  bully  of  a  K.C.  cross-examining 
you,  and  a  judge  turning  you  into  'copy' 
for  Punch.  But  I've  got  something  up  my 
sleeve  that  will  settle  the  whole  affair  in- 
stantly, to  the  absolute  satisfaction  of  both 
plaintiff  and  defendant. 

CARVE.  My  dear  fellow,  why  not  have  told  us 
this  exciting  news  earlier? 

CYRUS.  Why  not?  (Glowering  at  CARVE.) 
Because  I  wanted  you  to  commit  yourself 
completely  beyond  any  withdrawing.  I 
decided  what  sort  of  man  you  were  the 
moment  I  first  set  eyes  on  you,  and  when  I 
heard  of  this  law  case,  I  said  to  myself  that 
I'd  come  forward  as  a  witness,  but  I  shouldn't 
give  any  evidence  away  in  advance.  I  said  to 
myself  I'd  show  you  up  once  and  for  all  in 
full  court.  However,  his  lordship  prevailed 
on  me. 

CARVE.    Well  ? 

CYRUS.  When  my  cousin  and  I  were  boys  I've 
seen  him  with  his  shirt  off. 

CARVE.  True,  And  he's  seen  you  with  yours 
off. 

CYRUS.  Now  just  here  (Jointing  to  left  front 
neck  below  collar},  just  below  his  collar,  my 
cousin  Ham  Carve  had  two  moles  close  to- 


ACT   IV.    SCENE   1  145 

gather — one  was  hairy  and  the  other  wasn't. 
My  cousin  was  very  proud  of  them. 

CARVE.    Oh ! 

CYRUS.  (Ferociously  sarcastic?)  I  suppose  you'll 
say  you've  had  them  removed  ? 

CARVE.     (Casually?)     No.     Not  precisely. 

CYRUS.     Can  you  show  them  ? 

CARVE.     (  Very  casually?)     Of  course. 

TEXEL.     (Slapping  his  knee?)     Great  1     Great ! 

CYRUS.  (Staggered  but  obstinate?)  Well,  let's 
have  a  look  at  them. 

ALCAR.  (To  JANET.)  Then  doubtless  you 
are  familiar  with  this  double  phenomenon 
Mrs.  X  ? 

JANET.  Yes.  But  he  isn't  so  proud  of  his 
moles  now  as  he  used  to  be  when  he  was  a 
boy. 

ALCAR.  Now,  gentlemen,  you  see  how  beauti- 
fully clear  the  situation  is.  By  one  simple 
act  we  shall  arrive  at  a  definite  and  final  result, 
and  we  shall  have  avoided  all  the  noise  and 
scandal  of  a  public  trial.  Mr.  X,  will  you 
oblige  us  very  much  by  taking  your  collar 
off? 

JANET.  (Jumping  up?)  Please,  there's  just  one 
little  thing.  (To  CARVE.)  Wait  a  moment, 
dear.  (To  EBAG.)  Mr.  Ebag,  how  many 
of  those  pictures  did  you  sell  to  Mr. 
Texel  ? 

EBAG.    Fifteen. 
10 


146     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

JANET.  And  you  made  a  profit  of  over  four 
hundred  pounds  on  each? 

TEXEL.  (Boisterously — laughing  to  EBAG.)  You 
did? 

JANET.  Fifteen  times  four  hundred — that 
makes — how  much  does  it  make? 

TEXEL.  Six  thousand,  madam.  Thirty  thou- 
sand dollars.  Great ! 

JANET.  (To  EBAG.)  Don't  you  think  we 
deserve  some  of  that,  as  it  were? 

EBAG.  Madam,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  pay  you 
five  thousand  four  hundred  pounds.  That 
will  be  equivalent  to  charging  you  a  nominal 
commission  of  ten  per  cent. 

JANET.    Thank  you. 

CARVE.  I  won't  touch  a  penny  of  their  wretched 
money. 

JANET.  (Sweetly?)  I  wouldn't  dream  of  asking 
you  to,  dearest.  /  shall  touch  it.  Goodness 
knows  what  street  we  shall  be  in  after  this 
affair — and  with  my  brewery  shares  gone 
simply  all  to  pieces !  Now,  dearest,  you  can 
take  it  off.  (She  resumes  her  seat?) 

CARVE.    (Lightly?)     I'm  hanged  if  I  do ! 

ALCAR.     But,  my  dear  Mr.  X  ! 

CARVE.  (Lightly?)  I'm  dashed  if  I  take  my 
collar  off. 

CYRUS.     (Triumphant?)     Ha !  I  knew  it. 

CARVE.  Why  should  I  offer  my  skin  to  the 
inspection  of  two  individuals  in  whom  I 


ACT   IV.   SCENE   1  147 

haven't  the  slightest  interest  ?  They've  quar- 
relled about  me,  but  is  that  a  reason  why  I 
should  undress  myself?  Let  me  say  again, 
I've  no  desire  whatever  to  prove  that  I  am 
Ham  Carve. 

ALCAR.  But  surely  to  oblige  us  immensely, 
Mr.  X,  you  will  consent  to  give  just  one 
extra  performance  of  an  operation  which,  in 
fact,  you  accomplish  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  times  every  year  without  any  disastrous 
results. 

CARVE.  I  don't  look  at  it  like  that.  Already 
my  fellow-citizens,  expressing  their  conviction 
that  I  was  a  great  artist,  have  buried  me  in 
Westminster  Abbey — not  because  I  was  a 
great  artist,  but  because  I  left  a  couple  of 
hundred  thousand  pounds  for  a  public  object. 
And  now  my  fellow-citizens,  here  assembled, 
want  me  to  convince  them  that  I  am  a  great 
artist  by  taking  my  collar  off.  I  won't  do  it. 
I  simply  will  not  do  it.  It's  too  English.  If 
any  person  wishes  to  be  convinced  that  I'm 
an  artist  and  not  a  mountebank,  let  him  look 
at  my  work  (pointing  vaguely  to  a  picture)^ 
because  that's  all  the  proof  that  I  mean 
to  offer.  If  he  is  blind  or  shortsighted  I 
regret  it,  but  my  neck  isn't  going  to  help 
him. 

TEXEL.  Brilliant!  Then  we  shall  have  the 
trial  after  all. 


148     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CYRUS.  Yes,  but  your  brilliant  friend  will  be 
on  his  way  to  South  America  before  then. 

JANET.  (Sweetly  to  CYRUS.)  I  assure  you  it's 
quite  true  about  those  moles.  That's  why  he 
wears  those  collars. 

CYRUS.  (Grimly^}  No  doubt.  .  .  .  (Repeating?) 
Nevertheless  he'll  be  on  his  way  to  South 
America. 

CARVE.     (Gaily.}     Or  Timbuctoo. 

CYRUS.     (Significantly,}   Unless  you're  stopped. 

CARVE.  And  who's  going  to  stop  me?  All 
the  laws  of  this  country  added  together  can't 
make  me  take  my  collar  off  if  I  don't  want  to. 

CYRUS.  What  about  arresting  you  for  bigamy  ? 
What  about  Holloway?  I  fancy  at  Holloway 
they  have  a  short  method  with  people  who 
won't  take  their  collars  off. 

CARVE.  Well,  that  will  only  be  another  proof 
that  the  name  of  this  island  is  England.  It 
will  be  telegraphed  to  the  Continent  that  in 
order  to  prove  to  herself  that  she  possessed  a 
great  artist,  England  had  to  arrest  him  for 
bigamy  and  shove  him  into  prison.  .  .  .  Char- 
acteristic !  Characteristic ! 

ALCAR.  (Who  has  moved  across  to  JANET.) 
Mrs.  X,  can  you 

JANET.  (Rising  to  CARVE,  winningly.}  Now — 
Ham.  You're  only  laying  up  trouble  for  your- 
self, and  for  me  too.  Do  please  think  of  the 
trial.  You  know  how  shy  you  are  and  how 


ACT   IV.   SCENE   1          149 

you  tremble  at  the  mere  thought  of  a  witness- 
box. 

CYRUS.     I  can  believe  it. 

CARVE.  {Smiling  at  JANET.)  I've  got  past 
shyness.  I  think  it  was  the  visit  of  my  fine 
stalwart  sons  yesterday  that  cured  me  of 
shyness.  1  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  be  shy  any 
more. 

JANET.     (Appealingly.}     Dearest,  to  please  me  ! 

CARVE.  (Curt  now  for  tfie  first  time,  with  a  flash 
of  resentment}  No. 

JANET.  (After  a  slight  pause;  hurt  and 
startled;  with  absolute  conviction^  to  LORD 
LEONARD  ALCAR.)  It's  no  use.  He's  made 
up  his  mind. 

EBAG.     I  have  an  idea  that  I  can  persuade 

JANET.     (Hotly.}     Excuse  me.     You  can't. 

EBAG.  I  have  an  idea  I  can.  But  (hesitates} 
the  fact  is,  not  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 

JANET.  Oh.  If  that's  all — (walks  away  in  a 
huff}. 

EBAG.    (To  JANET.)    My  deepest  apologies. 

(LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR  shows  JANET  out} 

TEXEL.    Well,  well!   What  now? 

EBAG.     (To    CARVE.)     You   remember  Lady 

Alice  Rowfant? 
CARVE.     (Taken  aback.}    That  doesn't  concern 

you. 
EBAG.    (Ignoring  this  answer}    Pardon  me  if  I 


150     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

speak  plainly.  You  were  once  engaged  to 
marry  Lady  Alice  Rowfant.  But  a  few  days 
before  your  valet  died  you  changed  your 
mind  and  left  her  in  the  lurch  in  Spain. 
Lady  Alice  Rowfant  is  now  in  England.  She 
has  been  served  with  a  subpoena  to  give 
evidence  at  the  trial.  And  if  the  trial  comes 
on  she  will  have  to  identify  you  and  tell  her 
story  in  court.  (Pause?)  Are  you  going  to 
put  her  to  this  humiliation  ? 

(CARVE  walks  about.  Then  he  gives  a 
gesture  of  surrender?) 

CARVE.  The  artist  is  always  beaten  !  ( With  an 
abrupt  movement  he  pulls  undone  the  bow  of 
his  necktie?} 

(The  stage  is  darkened  to  indicate  the  passage 
of  a  few  minutes?) 

SCENE  2 

(CARVE  is  attempting  to  re-tie  his  necktie. 
LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR  is  coming 
away  from  door  back.  JANET  enters 
from  door,  L.) 

JANET.     (Under  emotion,    to    CARVE.)      Then 

you've  done  it !     (CARVE  ignores  her?) 
ALCAR.     Yes,  and  /  feel  like  a  dentist. 
JANET.     You've  sent  them  all  away. 


ACT   IV.    SCENE  2  151 

ALCAR.  I  thought  you'd  like  me  to.  Mr.  Ebag 
took  charge  of  Mr.  Texel.  Your  cousin  Cyrus 
was  extremely  upset. 

JANET.     What  did  she  say  ? 

ALCAR.    Who  say  ? 

JANET.  Lady  Alice  Rowfant,  of  course.  Oh ! 
You  needn't  pretend  !  As  soon  as  Mr.  Ebag 
asked  me  to  go  out  I  knew  he'd  got  her  up 
his  sleeve.  (  Weeps  slightly?) 

ALCAR.  (Very  sympathetically?)  My  dear  young 
lady,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

JANET.  (Her  utterance  disturbed  by  sobs — in- 
dicating CARVE.)  He'd  do  it  for  her,  but  he 
wouldn't  do  it  for  me ! 

ALCAR.  I  assure  you,  Lady  Alice  Rowfant  has 
not  been  here. 

JANET.    Honest? 

ALCAR.  No.  The  mere  mention  of  her  name 
was  sufficient. 

JANET.  That's  even  worse !  (Rushing  across  to 
CARVE  and  pettishly  seizing  his  necktie. 
CARVE  submits?)  Here !  Let  me  do  it — for 
goodness  sake  !  Great  clumsy !  (Still  tear- 
ful—to LORD  LEONARD  ALCAR  as  she  ties 
the  necktie?)  Somehow  I  don't  mind  crying 
in  front  of  you,  because  you're  so  nice  and 
fatherly. 

ALCAR.  Well,  if  I'm  so  fatherly,  may  I  venture 
on  a  little  advice  to  you  two?  (To  CARVE.) 
You  said  you  didn't  want  to  be  Ham  Carve. 


152     THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

Don't  be  Ham  Carve.  Let  Ham  Carve  con- 
tinue his  theoretical  repose  in  the  Abbey  and 
you  continue  to  be  somebody  else.  It  will 
save  a  vast  amount  of  trouble,  and  nobody 
will  be  a  penny  the  worse.  Leave  England — 
unobtrusively.  If  you  feel  homesick,  arrange 
to  come  back  during  a  general  election,  and 
you  will  be  absolutely  unnoticed.  You  have 
money.  If  you  need  more,  I  can  dispose  of 
as  many  new  pictures  as  you  like  to  send. 

JANET.  I  don't  want  him  to  paint  any  more 
pictures. 

ALCAR.    But  he  will. 

JANET.  I  suppose  he  will.  Why  is  it  ?  As  if 
we  hadn't  had  enough  bother  already  through 
this  art  business ! 

ALCAR.   Yes.   But  artists  ?  i  o  like  that,  you  know. 

JANET.  (Affectionately  reproachful  to  CARVE.) 
Child !  Look  how  nicely  I've  tied  it  for  you. 
(Shakes  him.}  Whatever  are  you  dreaming 
about  ? 

CARVE.  (After  glancing  in  mirror  reflectively^} 
There's  only  one  question.  Last  time  they 
buried  me  in  the  Abbey, — what  will  they  do 
with  me  next  time? 

CURTAIN. 


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